


And Never The Chain Shall Meet

by Sketchpad



Category: Family Guy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Ancestors, Dramedy, F/M, Kidnapping, Musicals, Rescue, Romance, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 14:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sketchpad/pseuds/Sketchpad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Meg finds material for a report on Black History Month, she discovers that Nathanial Griffin wasn't the only black ancestor in the family who lived a life of greatness. Meet "May" Griffin!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

"Meg!" her mother, Lois, called from the kitchen. "When do you have to turn in that report for school?"

Alone in the living room, Meg angled her head up a bit to direct her answer back while keeping her eyes locked onto the latest amateurish dreck that passed for television on the Sci-fi Channel, now simply known as _Syfy_.

' _It should be a crime to show movies_ this _bad,'_ she thought idly.

"In two weeks, Mom," she said, settling back into a more rag doll-like posture indicative of the American Couch Potato.

"Well, don't forget. The last thing we need is a New England race riot because the white kids at school didn't do _their_ part on Black History Month."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," Meg said, nonplused. "History may fade, but guilt never does. I've got time to come up with something by then."

"Okay, Sweetie."

Disconsolate, Meg slumped a little lower in the couch after the lie she told. She didn't have many ideas floating in her head concerning the report. They were either half-formed or simply not there, and two weeks flew deceptively fast for the uncommitted.

"Well, I got nothing," she groused to herself. With a sigh, she knew that it wouldn't be so easy this time.

Gone were the halcyon days when she could count on George Washington Carver or Martin Luther King, Jr. to bail her out of a possible bad grade, and the oft despised mark of the teacher's red pen.

She admitted to herself that that was the easy way out back then, but today didn't make things any _less_ easy, and that was, oddly, the point.

These days, a lazy, yet enterprising youngster could get all the information he or she wanted via _Google,_ and might even have the temerity to write the whole article down, verbatim, and pass it off as the report.

Such blatant plagiarism didn't appeal to her as much as it might have her contemporaries. In the back of her mind and, it seemed, in the bottom of her heart, such duplicity made her feel small, and only served to cheapen her subject's memory.

What were needed now were new subjects to touch upon. To hear her classmates tell it, the only black people of any stripe besides rap stars were George, Martin, or even Michael…Jackson, Jordan _or_ Vick, and that would have been the opinion of most of the _black_ students.

Meg thanked her lucky stars that she didn't need to solicit the advice of _any_ of the pop-culture addled, video game addicted students. She just mentally squared her shoulders and continued to ruminate. She knew what would happen, should she fail.

If a black kid did or didn't do the assignment, the outcome would have just been either a passing or failing mark. But something else awaited the _white_ kid who didn't do the assignment, as damning, as it was implied.

This was, she understood, part and parcel with being a white American student in the post-Civil Rights Movement Era, to, in essence, pay tribute to the black community, by marginally learning something about its culture, as she knew the school would do.

With guilty looks being the punishment of choice for those who didn't uphold their end of this unspoken social contract, it wasn't too bad a deal, as unspoken social contracts went, but it did become a bit of a chore when one's heart wasn't in it.

And it wasn't as though Meg's heart wasn't in it, she just didn't know how _not_ to make it look so sadly clichéd and obviously rushed, as so many others had been in the past. She was a senior now, and for her, this one had to be special, a personal best.

She blanked out in thought, almost reaching a meditative state, and so, was barely listening to the commercial that was playing just then.

"…You can find out more about your family's history with," the friendly voiceover offered.

The spark of an idea wasn't long in coming. A corner of her mouth curled up into an embarrassed smile that she didn't think of the fact _sooner_. The fact that she was, for all intents and purposes, black _herself_ , through Peter.

As told in a library book detailing their family genealogy on her father's side, the knowledge that her father was related to an African-American slave named Nathaniel, was the buzz of the family.

Out of curiosity, she had a chance to peruse another book that her father had brought from the library that day, an actual slave narrative penned by Nathaniel himself. Unfortunately, due to either egotism, forgetfulness, or just plain, bad writing on the author's part, Meg, like the other family members who read from it, couldn't get anything other than cursory, basic knowledge of the ancestor.

However, what she didn't know was that Peter, in a spectacularly surprising bit of initiative and intellectual curiosity, secretly began to research more into his genealogy and actually found additional information concerning Nate and his life in the Nineteenth Century, which he later regaled to all but Meg, while she was being held captive by burglars who broke into the home one night.

As it stood, the paltry data she got from the library book was insufficient for her needs, but, as she sat up straighter in the couch with a renewed sense of confidence in her success, the possibility of finding out more on her own was stoking the fires within her.

If the limitations of the book were any indication, the library was out as far as she was concerned, though Meg decided that she could go back to it, if she had no other recourse. In the meantime, she knew she would have to go to more alternative sources and try her luck there.

"Mom, did Dad take the car?" Meg asked towards the kitchen.

"I think so, Meg."

Meg got up and trotted over to the solitary table that stood near the front door. A quick look over it was rewarded with a pair of car keys that she scooped and pocketed.

"I'm gonna borrow Brian's car for a sec while I look for some research material for my report."

"Okay, Sweetie," Lois called back. "I'll tell Brian when he and Peter come back from the Clam. Hurry back, now."

"Thanks, Mom," Meg said as she went to the door to open it. The voice of the announcer on TV managed to catch her attention for a fleeting moment before she crossed the threshold.

"Next on _Syfy_ , Mega-Dino-Shark-Gator. Then it's Mega-Dino-Shark-Gator vs. Hyper-Dragon-Anaconda. After that, it's Shark-Dragon-Hyper-Dino vs. Mega-Anaconda-Gator. That's all coming up tonight-on _Syfy_. Imagine greater!"

"I wish _they_ would," Meg said before closing the door.

* * *

 

Phil Carson, the rumpled, elderly, cigar-scented proprietor of Unique Antiques, lazily propped his pale, wrinkled head on the palm of his open, age-spotted hand, wondering if it was too late to punch his even older uncle in the face for setting him on the path of antique retail so long ago, since he hadn't made a decent sale all afternoon and he was jonesing for his Jack Daniels.

His pink, bleary eyes twitched in the direction of the front door when the little bell signaled its opening. A petite girl in a reddish cap walked almost cautiously inside and peered at the more immediate knick-knacks and gewgaws that hung and sat on shelves in the forward half of the shop.

He straightened himself up and cleared his tobacco-laced throat.

"What can I do for ya?" Phil asked. His eyes stared at her with well-aged cynicism, though he tried to look, for all the world, as though he was glad to see her, and his voice croaked with a world-weariness he couldn't conceal.

"I was wondering if you had any Black Americana?" Meg asked. "Maybe anything from the 1800's?"

Phil's eyes opened a little wider at the request. She seemed a little too young and plain to hold much of an interest in such things. But who was he to judge?

"Well, young lady," he began. "I have a pretty good collection on the premises. So, what are ya after? Slave auction posters? Bills of sales? Maybe ya want some genuine shackles from a real live slave ship?"

Meg suddenly wondered if she was in the right shop, because she suddenly felt dirty.

"Uh, no. Not really. I mean, do you have anything that's more…positive?"

Phil looked at her as though she had asked him if he sold weapons-grade plutonium.

"Hmm. Don't know if I have anything like that, but you could look around, I suppose. People come by and raise all kinds of hell about what I sell here. Not my fault that the less flattering memorabilia sells so well. I just follow the trends."

Meg wandered among the shelves, ignoring the man's defensiveness. Interspersed among the other non-related items were tiny tin Gunthermann wind-up toys depicting black minstrels and others. Wrought-iron fireplace pieces formed into the shapes of black banjo players. Glass collector cases displaying intimidating slave collars with some of its chain still attached.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the collar longer than anything else so far. Appreciation of her Jewish heritage had opened her mind to what it must have been like to live during the Holocaust for a few moments, and the connection between both oppressed peoples was hammered home. It made her stomach twist a little.

"I guess you must get that a lot," she said, trying to be both neighborly, and to dissipate the specter of the past that hung over her.

Phil sat back in his creaking chair behind the counter, deep in thought.

"Yeah, but I don't mind, y'know? It's just stuff that happened to somebody else a long time ago, am I right? I mean, don't get me wrong. The commercial art and media is really hilarious, but I just collect items like this because of their rarity. I mean you just don't come across items that are this well made anymore. Right after the Civil Rights Movement, they stopped making all that kind of stuff, so it's great when you see that it's still being collected by the Aunt Jemima/Gold Dust Twins crowd, because it's pretty hard to come by."

Meg mentally gave the man a sour face. _'I didn't think vampires ran local businesses,'_ she thought. "Wow, that pretty interesting. A World War II train schedule from Auschwitz's pretty hard to come by, too, but it doesn't mean I _want_ one."

She meant to say that under her breath, but her sudden indignation made the sarcasm come out just loud enough for Phil to catch it. Meg waited for the counter-point and it wasn't long in coming.

Phil straightened and puffed up as best as his slightly hunched body could manage. He radiated offense, something Meg would have agreed he did so in abundance.

"What are ya talking about? I'm no racist! I've got all _kinds_ of Americana here. Here, take a look at this.

He quickly came around to the front of the counter, leading Meg over to a wooden display table. On it lay a short stack of dusty papers. Their small words were faded with age, however, the letterhead, adorned with an eagle, was still legible due to its size and darkness.

"Genuine U.S. Government documents of land that we gave to the Indians and then reneged on," he proudly offered. "How about this?"

He went to a shelf nearby and took down a small can. When he brought it back, Meg could see that the label showed the unflattering caricature of a Newcomer, with the words, written both in English and Tenctonese, "Uncle Slaggy's Head Shine."

"A can of Newcomer head shine. This stuff's rare. Never been opened, and check this out."

Phil led Meg deeper into his shop until they reached another table that displayed a large leather-bound book. Meg couldn't make out the title of the tome because of the language, but when she saw the stylized eagle and thunderbolt double "S" below it, she understood why she suddenly felt a little numb.

Phil gestured to the cover with big arm movements, as though he were showcasing a new car.

"A book of 100 percent _authentic_ Nazi wanted posters for Allied Jewish-American soldiers. You don't come across this every day," he told her. Then he leaned, to Meg's estimation, way too close, and added as an aside, "But if you ever _do_ come across one of them Auschwitz train schedules, hook me up. I'll make you a good deal."

If Meg thought that the man could creep out Vincent Price _before_ he took her on his macabre little tour of his shop, the tour assuredly confirmed it for her.

"Wow, I guess I got you all wrong, then. Hate's just good business," she concluded, sarcastically.

Phil looked like a teacher who had finally gotten through to a stubborn student. "Damn right. Now let's go back up front."

Settling back into his chair, Phil asked, "Okay, now, can I help you with anything?"

Meg sighed and decided that despite the ghoul's particular taste, he might just have something to offer.

"Okay. I need some material to do a report on Black History Month. Something I could use for research that's not too pricey."

Phil frowned slightly on the "not too pricey" part. "Well, in that case, you should try the library, kid. I'm not missing my stories so you can make a guilty A in school. I'm here to make some money." He picked up a newspaper he had put down earlier in disgust of another non-sale day, and buried his face in it. Not to read so much as to put an obvious anti-social barrier between Meg and himself.

Meg frowned at _that_. She didn't have much in the way of petty cash and wasn't really in the mood to haggle. "I understand," she conceded. "Well, could you point me to something you have that's really cheap, then?"

"Boy, you really stink at negotiating, kid," Phil sighed in boredom as he put down the newspaper. Then a thought struck him. Actually, more of a _reminder_ struck him. "Well, there's a whole stack of those old local black newspapers from the 1800's."

Meg followed his nod to a stack of cardboard boxes standing in a lonely corner of the store.

"Haven't been able to sell 'em in all this time," he said. "So, I'll tell you what. I'll flip ya for 'em. Heads, they get recycled next week, and tails, you get 'em for free. Deal?"

Meg was caught off-guard by that. The last thing she wanted was to be fobbed off with nothing but old newsprint from when _Andrew Jackson_ was in office.

"I guess," she sputtered. "But what can I do-"

"Too late!" he crowed, eager to punish the little snot for daring to set up her soapbox in his shop. He quickly fished in his shirt pocket for a quarter, put it into position on his thumb, and catapulted it high above the two of them.

The two watched it descend, and as he reached out to catch it, Phil missed. The coin bounced off the glass surface of the counter hard, the kinetic energy of its impact causing it to land and spin on its side. It was anyone's guess as to which side it would ultimately rest on.

Despite her reluctance to being the proud owner of ancient birdcage liners, Meg was caught up in the suspense of the coin toss, finding herself wondering if she was going to win, even with such a dubious prize.

The two contestants' attention was ripped from the spinning quarter to the front door, when it suddenly opened on its own accord from a strong breeze outside.

Phil was about to fuss that he should have had that door fixed, when the breeze swept across the countertop, knocking the now wobbling coin over to expose…its _tail_ side.

For a moment or two, neither said anything and just stood where they were, absorbing the fact that the coin toss was over and a winner had been decided by what seemed to be a suspiciously wayward gust of wind.

To an outsider, it would have been a fabulous example of an Aesop's Fable turned inside out. _The Prize No One Wanted To Win._

Meg started running scenarios in her head on what to do with all of that newspaper, hoping that there was something worth writing about in them.

As for Phil, all he knew was that he _lost_. It didn't matter the contest or the prize, he just knew that this annoying little girl just knocked his happiness level down another microscopic notch.

Phil stared hard at her with a sour, crotchety expression.

"What've you got against recycling, anyway?" he asked her petulantly.

* * *

 

As she lugged the last awkward box of newspapers up the stairs, Meg could appreciate the benefits of a single story home. She also noticed how fast family members could find something else to do, whenever she asked for help in bringing her load to her bedroom.

With a soft grunt of effort, she rested the last box on top of the others that she positioned by her closet doors, and marched blankly to her bed to take a breather.

The notion that "one man's trash was another man's treasure" sat prominently in her mind. She hoped that there was truth in that adage. Although it didn't cost her a dime to procure all of this material, it struck her as meaningless to hold on to it if didn't help her in some way.

One thing she didn't want to do was destroy it out of hand, like the shop owner wanted. If worse came to worse, and all she managed to find through its pages were local stories of the day, she figured that the least she could do is maybe give the whole lot to The Rhode Island Black Heritage Society. That _would_ be better.

Pleased by her good judgment, Meg smiled wearily as she crossed her mirror. Apparently, she was so bushed, that it took a few moments for her brain to register a coherent action to the sight her peripheral vision had just caught.

Her reflection looked…odd.

At least _odd_ was the initial description that flashed in her mind at the time. Although she didn't see it completely, Meg noticed that whatever was on the head was neither red nor her toque, the shape was unfamiliar and looked to be a faded shade of green.

The hair looked to be a shock of black curls that flowed out from under the green covering on the head, and, just as surprising, Meg thought that the reflection was… _darker_? Was she too close to the mirror? A shadow, perhaps? Maybe, but it was the middle of the afternoon and her bedroom was flooded with natural light coming from both of its windows.

Automatically, Meg stepped back to look at herself full on in the mirror, a little frightened by what she saw, but resolved to see the truth.

Her own image stared nervously back at her. She took a breath and closed her eyes, both in gratitude and embarrassment. Too much stress over this report, obviously.

"I must be tired," Meg self-diagnosed as she went over to her dresser and turned on her radio. Then she finished her trek to the bed and flopped relievedly on it.

Meg squirmed into a better position to relax when the radio stopped playing.

With an exasperated growl, she got out of bed with the kind of tired, annoyed body English that would have made a grizzly bear proud.

She held the radio by its side and flicked its power switch, but it was still silent. She gave the back of the device a cursory check for frayed wiring, but nothing was physically amiss. Satisfied in her confirmation of the condition of the radio, and nothing else, Meg slumped back on her bed in frustration.

She sat in the disconcerting silence of the room. _'Well, I'm already in bed,'_ she thought. _'I was going to take a cat-nap, anyway.'_

Settling into a prone position, Meg stretched and was about to relax into eventual R.E.M. sleep, when the bedroom door opened and Lois stepped into the threshold.

"Meg, Sweetie?" Lois said to her resting daughter.

"Yeah?"

"I just came up to tell you that power's out all over the neighborhood. It might take a while until we get it back."

Meg gave a sigh to that. "Good thing it's still daytime, then."

"Yeah. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know," Lois said.

"Thanks, Mom."

"You're welcome, Sweetie."

Upon her mother's departure, Meg absently wondered how did they suffer a blackout in the middle of the day.

Peter Griffin stood by the front of the smoking family station wagon that sat in the middle of the street, several blocks from where he lived, oblivious to the inconvenient destruction he wrought just moments before.

An observer would have noticed that the car had been given a new feature that didn't exactly look factory-standard.

Extending from the rear of the roof was a crudely attached metal boom, hooked at one end and laced with cables that ran down its length into a kit-bashed terminal, which was, itself, crudely plugged into the cigarette lighter on the dashboard.

A torn section of high-tension power line trailed from the hooked end of the boom and ran to one end of the street. Sputtering and flashing dangerously close to where Peter stood, was the other end of the power line, still being fed electricity and still connected to its jury-rigged place, far lower on the telephone pole than it should have been.

How Peter had managed to find the time and dubious expertise to run a line from one side of the street to the other in a perilous reenactment to a key scene from _Back To The Future_ was a mystery for the ages.

In any event, he now stood outside the car while his dog, Brian, did his level best to hide his large muzzled face from the incriminating looks and uproar his friend's asinine decision would soon reap.

Peter looked thoughtfully resolute into the horizon, the leading man in the movie in his mind, and said, to no one in particular, "Today, sadly, the miracle of time travel has eluded mankind."

He then turned to where Brian sat and said to him, "Brian, you push and I'll steer."

Peter, still in his belief that he was close to something akin to a scientific breakthrough, then began running nonsensical equations in his already nonsensical mind on his way to the driver's side of the car.

Unfortunately, he was also blissfully unaware that his foot was about to come down on the end of the still live wire…

Meg just shrugged it off as one of those unexplainable things that just happened, when _another_ seemingly unexplainable thing happened.

From the side of the room where her closet was, the top cardboard box had fallen with a _thump_ , on its side, its contents of neatly folded, age-discolored copies of _The Quahog Key,_ Quahog's first black newspaper, spilling across the floor.

Meg jumped and got up off the bed with a start. What was going on here?

She walked slowly towards the pile and looked over at the other boxes that supported the one that fell. There was no damage to them. No dents or deformations that would cause the lower boxes to sag and not hold up the uppermost one. No physical reason she could see for the top box to fall.

She kneeled to the folded papers to put them back into their container, pondering if maybe there was a mouse in her room, or worse, that caused the spill.

Then she noticed that one of the newspapers, probably the first in that pile, had slid away from the others upon impact and sat off to the side, its pages opened.

After setting the box upright, Meg reached over to grab the stray and fold it closed again, when she noticed something in its sepia interior.

A dark photograph sat in the upper left corner of a page, beside a title written in a large ornate Victorian font, _"My Quahog Days."_

Meg thought nothing of it for the first few seconds of seeing the photo, but when she slowed down in her need to clean up long enough to really get a good look at the face in the picture, she was, in a word, thunderstruck.

The face was her own. Or rather, it was her impossible dark mirrored reflection, upon startling recollection. Frozen, Meg just stared and studied the woman's features. Although the authoress was black, she could have easily had been her double.

Here, this young woman, who looked to be about Meg's age, more or less, wore a different outfit then what she thought she saw in the mirror, a stately blouse of the era. Though the image was faded, the look of contentment was clearly evident in her doppelganger's smile.

Scanning down the page, Meg saw that other writers didn't break up the entire page into separate articles. Whoever she was, this page's entirety was devoted to her words alone.

Sitting in a more comfortable position, Meg picked up the paper to see more clearly the words that appeared under the grainy photograph.

"Article by May Griffin," she read to herself.

 _May_ Griffin? It sounded like she said her own name, but that very fact hit her like a rabbit punch. The similarity of _appearance_ and _name_. Of _everything…_

Meg was stunned at the impossibility of it. At the sheer _improbability_ of it. "She's a _Griffin_!" she squeaked. "Oh, my God! Could she be related to _me_? This is… _so_ _cool_!"

She stood up and ran back to her bed, newspaper in hand, eager to find out more about this lost gem of the family that she just discovered.

As she settled in to read every word and absorb every passage of this precious, precious link to her past, the anxiety of doing the report fled from her like fog before the sun. She was going to enjoy this.

Her heart hammered with every question she wished she could ask her, well, great-great-great grand… _aunt_? Meg couldn't fathom what May's genealogical status was, and couldn't care less. How was school like for her? Did she have trouble getting boys to like her? What were her dreams? What was her family like?

Some questions were easier to answer than others, like did she ever try to fit in with the popular crowd? Meg could see that not being popular because she might have appeared plain to others would seem rather petty when held up to the stark fact that May wouldn't have been considered popular _at all_ , purely because she was black.

No matter what humiliating experiences Meg might have went through in her life, no one ever considered _lynching_ her simply because she was a Plain Jane.

But such questions would hopefully be answered in the fullness of time with the reading of May's unearthed missive.

And so Meg relaxed, valiantly tried to suppress all expectations, and read…


	2. 2

_The funny thing about faith is that it makes you do the outwardly foolhardy, no matter how foolish you might have felt at the time. For example, Old Man Ragg didn't want to give my story a chance, as usual, but his_ workers' _moods were certainly brightened by it. They say they hadn't gotten a good, hard laugh in a long time…_

A small, blue blur flew from the doorway of the stately brick office building in Downtown Quahog, and crashed with a clumsy tumble into the dusty street outside, startling nearby pedestrians and a passing draft horse.

As the well-heeled citizens and that particular beast of burden resumed their respective journeys, the settling dust finally revealed the petite figure of a black teenaged girl, who stood up, straightened her wayward spectacles, and beat the loose soil from her otherwise clean, simple, baby-blue dress.

"Thanks, fellas," May Griffin said sarcastically, as she finished dusting herself off. "I was having so much fun in there, I forgot where the door was."

The door in question, a bright white, doubled affair, led through the façade of the Ragg Publishing Company, which proudly bore its sign above said doors, alongside its corporate motto, _"Print Is Power."_ Few people would know how stringently the owner of the company took those words to heart, one Phineas Q. Ragg, Esq.

Phineas, an elderly white man, so pale that his liver spots could be seen from a distance, tottered out into the afternoon sunlight, and fought his palsy shake just long enough to toss an ink-stained, dog eared, roughly written manuscript feebly at her feet.

Arriving on either side to protect him, were his men, The Bookers, known throughout every smoky saloon and pool hall in Quahog as The Bookends.

Bart and Brent Booker, two huge, enormously strong identical twins, were bruisers who worked for Ragg as bodyguards and personal muscle. They dressed in identically tailored bowler hats and white suits that heroically tried to contain their girth, and were haphazardly adorned with black letters of various typefaces and fonts, an eccentric, personal touch that Ragg had given them.

"Your arse must have amnesia, girl," Phineas Ragg's English voice squawked at her. "Every time I kick it, it slips your mind. Bring that pile of trash near my printing presses again, and my boys and I'll take you down to the storage cellar and find out what kind of ink comes out of you!"

Perplexed, May didn't have much time to ponder the strangeness of that rather odd racial comment before Ragg's protectors, and her _ejectors,_ said _their_ peace.

Brent stood tall, using his imposing height to direct his voice out onto the street at her.

"Yeah!" he quipped. "We'll turn ya into a _final edition_!"

Brother Bart, however, decided to follow the chain of command. He hunched over to his employer, which almost looked like a crouch, due to Ragg's physical frailty and tiny size, and asked, "You want we should… _stop her circulation_?"

May calmly wondered if the puns would have been as bad as the bum's rush she suffered.

Ragg rose a quivering, yet placating hand at the two of them. "No need, my fine fellows. I think she gets…the _premise_. Bookends, let's go."

May tightened her head wrap more securely as she felt the throb in her backside where one of The Bookends kicked her, and favored Mr. Ragg a condescending smile that the old man's failing eyesight might have misread as sincerity.

"May the good Lord keep you, Mr. Ragg," she said to him, then added under her breath, "Keep you in the deepest bowels of-"

"Hi, May!"

She cringed as she was interrupted by the sound of a taunting voice approaching, and a small crowd gathering behind her, as the target of her venom toddled back into his building with his goons.

May glanced around to see who might have been behind her, but she knew she shouldn't have bothered. From the errant, sycophantic giggles, and the light scent of French perfume that her father had bought her, she already knew who had arrived to bedevil her.

Standing before her entourage like a princess to her retinue, Cassandra D'amico basked in the glow of the awkward scene May was in the center of.

The only child of Italian immigrants who made their fortune opening a textile plant in town, it was Cassandra's raison d'etre to represent the future of American elitism by announcing to all and sundry that the new, beautiful people, like her, were in charge, or soon to be, due to good looks, good breeding, good money, and bad attitude.

So it stood to reason that the poor, the unpopular, the unwashed immigrants and people like May were all fair game to her and her personal game of social one-upmanship.

"Well, well, well," Cassandra greeted with sly insincerity on her part. "Setting the world on fire with that book of yours? Through torturing your fellow classmates in that warehouse you call a school with another chapter? You couldn't write a decent dime novel if it sold for five cents."

"It's not a warehouse, okay, Cassy? It's just segregated," May fired back, already tired of the near-weekly badgering.

Cassandra's face suddenly grew dark as she puffed up in indignation at what she deemed May's undeserved familiarity.

"Don't call me _Cassy_! You're not _good_ enough to call me that!" she spat at her. She then calmed down, for the sake of her comrades, so as not to look overly ruffled over someone who, in her opinion, should be carrying her books.

Glancing over to her girlfriends, who flanked her like cliquish remoras, she said, "Have you girls ever been to her school? It's so black, they might as well call it night school."

"I want to tell you," May said, when the laughter died a little. "In case you haven't been told this in a while, to go fuck yourself."

One in Cassandra's group failed to stifle a guffaw, to May's satisfaction, and Cassandra found herself on a rare defensive. She stepped up closer to May, in the hopes of intimidating her, but May, to her credit, stood resolute, almost eager for an exchange.

"That's funny, May," D'amico conceded with her customary smirk. "But I can think of a much better way to blow off steam. Seeing you all chained up on my cellar wall, with me holding the key."

"What is with these people and cellars?" May asked herself.

With her gang cheering her on, Cassandra became more confident and decided to press her attack.

"Yeah, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" she said tauntingly, as visions of May chained and bowed before her, swam in her mind. Even though she usually had the upper hand socially, it was still a constant irritation seeing May dust herself off and sometimes display that spunky gumption of hers in the face of it.

But that would be all over when May was set up like a living tribute to Cassandra's supposed greatness.

"All bound and _helpless_ …"

The dark deliciousness of it all, the sensual taste of dominating her at last. The metallic song of chain on masonry. _Their song._ The glow of her bronze skin as she perspired from her futile exertions to escape.

"And _me_ there...just… _watching_ you and…"

That intoxicating knowledge that her young life…and her _body_ …was in her hands.

"…Feathers…"

One of Cassandra's friends, clearly worried for her, called out to the near-daydreaming queen bee, "Cassy? _Cassy!_ "

Cassandra was jerked out of her fantasies to see May slowly shake her head in pity. That stiffened D'amico inside and she resumed her attack, hoping that her friends hadn't noticed her strange lapse.

"You know what it _really_ is?" she asked rhetorically. "You people are always trying to skate uphill with all this uppitiness. All the kids in my school know their place around _me_. Why don't you?"

She decided to step even closer to May's face as a challenge, her smirk growing wider in anticipation of a verbal coup de grace. "You think your life's on such steady ground, but you know what, it's not. It's just a _bottomless hole_."

May, to her credit, looked unflappable as she gave Cassandra an innocent look, and said smoothly, "Wow, so _that's_ what your dad calls you."

Among the scandalized gasps that her friends supplied, Cassandra was a statue of silent apoplexy, allowing May to bask in the glow of the awkward scene that _Cassandra_ was now in the center of.

Cassandra curled her fingers into claws. Hidden lesbian crush be _damned_.

"Why, you-" she screeched as she tackled May to the ground.

Although Cassandra was taller, May managed to grab a fistful of hair and wrap her legs around Cassandra's waist as she shifted herself out from under her opponent, causing them to roll around violently.

May's free hand was busy keeping D'amico's other free hand from punching her in the face. D'amico's occupied hand, in turn, was clutching May's own hair and head scarf, trying to lift her head so she could drive it continuously into the ground.

Cassandra's friends were so caught up in their cheering and whooping at the combatants, and the excitement of being in the middle of such a scandalous scene, that they didn't see the patrolling constable that was attracted to the noise until it was too late.

The girls backed off a respectful distance and let the policeman reach down into the dust cloud of scratching fingers and kicking feet, as though he were fishing with his bare hands, and plucked the two fighters mightily from the ground.

With a firm shake, he snapped them temporarily, out of their bloodlust, and deposited them on their feet, arm lengths away from each other.

Both girls were breathing hard, battle-scarred and eager to resume hostilities, but the constable's solid body and authoritarian scowl finally brought them both to heel.

He turned to May, adding a wagging, accusatory finger to the scowl he flashed at her. "Alright, you. I want you to go home, and think long and hard about not being a bully."

May looked at the cop with shock and suddenly wanted to claw his beady eyes free from his skull, a good way, she knew, to spend some quality time in a jailhouse. With a sigh of supreme control, she stood down.

While she choose to look for her manuscript in the dusty street, May could hear the constable regard Cassandra next.

"And you," the policeman began, with May turning to see Cassandra receive her tongue-lashing next.

The constable's expression softened to that of a doting father. "You have a nice day, alright?"

In disgust, May found and picked up her dingy book, deciding that a tactical retreat was more prudent under the circumstances, but not without a parting shot of defiance.

She turned her head to regard her foe as she marched away from the area.

"We'll see you on the road, scag!" she yelled in angry parting. "We'll see you on the road like we saw The Night Rider!"

Not to be outdone by a mere freewoman, disheveled Cassandra D'amico yelled back, "We remember The Night Rider, and we know who you are!"

* * *

 

The Concord stagecoach with the brown and black body panels that creaked quietly up the road from the train station, was built, like so many others, from the main factory in its namesake of Concord, New Hampshire about nine years ago.

Sturdy, solid and capable, it served mail carriers, government couriers, and even smugglers. Now, it carried the figure that drove it with calm purpose towards the city limits of Quahog.

In all of the previous townships and metropolises the driver rode through, to any people who caught sight of the figure, he was simply known only as The Hooded Coachman, a sorrowful, silent jehu.

Clad in a black, weatherworn box coat, its threadbare shoulder capes billowing in the sea tinged breeze, and adorned with a crudely sewn hood in the collar to keep out the elements and hide his inscrutable face, he was the lonely, implacable image of Death itself.

Although the sole passenger who rode within the coach, a huntsman, was the vehicle's true master, the dark coachman hung his head low in the bright sun to conceal his visage, even now. He knew only shame and the hollow inescapability of his service to The Hunter.

Truly, even the coach itself was not allowed to retain its original beauty, or the tasks for which it was built, in _its_ service to The Hunter. Over the years, it was stripped down, overhauled, and heavily modified. From the front boot, to its rear, from the luggage rack on its roof, to the wheels themselves, and all space in between. Even its name was a psychological tool of The Hunter's. _The Hessian._

Laden with hidden equipment and presently dormant weapons, the stagecoach's innocuous appearance made The Hunter within, a solitary and premier predator of men, driven by money and satisfied only with the challenge of pursuit.

As far as The Coachman was concerned, he was just another accoutrement of the coach, a shadowy component of The Hunter's arsenal.

A double strike from inside the coach was his master's missive, a questioning thump that the driver was long accustomed to.

"We're almost there," came The Coachman's answer, doleful, soft, and rarely heard by any other living soul.

The silence that followed meant that The Hunter was satisfied, and The Coachman hunched a little lower in his box seat. At the very least, the prey would enjoy the few hours remaining.

He didn't increase the speed of the two-horse team that pulled this disguised wagon of war. There was no need. The capture would happen, as it always did, in its appointed time. There was no rush.

* * *

 

The length and breadth of the New England beauty of Quahog, Rhode Island was on serene display in the light of the late afternoon sun.

It was reflected on the clean windows of whitewashed homes and places, like the dignified First Baptist Church in America, the green lawns, the varied and elaborate carriages that cruised by orderly shops, and mostly in its contented citizens.

Technology had also made its presence known in the town, as well, in the form of a small fleet of steam-powered omnibuses that chugged sedately along their given routes, ferrying top-hat wearing businessmen, adventurous ladies, common folk, and, on one steam bus, puffing towards the periphery of the town's black neighborhoods to the east, a hidden passenger.

Almost immediately after she and her family settled into Quahog from their exodus of Lynchtree, Virginia and the Pewterschmidt Plantation two years ago, May had to learn how to get around this noisy, active, energetic, new town, and this marvelous conveyance made it all possible.

And as she had no desire to feel so many of the white passengers' unwelcome and disapproving eyes casting their gaze upon her, it became a fairly common sight for pedestrians to see May secretly hitching bus rides from the farther reaches of the city to home.

In any event, no one seemed to care that she did this, though May did suspect that this was probably because anyone who was watching her was hoping that she'd fall while the bus was in motion, and eat street.

Sitting on an ornamental, protective skirt that extended from the rear of the bus's chassis that was designed to shield rear passengers from dust and road debris kicked up from the rear tires, May took her ease and reflected on the day.

Her after-school plan was a bust, obviously, with regards to her getting her book published. And ever since she first read a passage of her book to her fellow classmates, every time she attempted to regale them with a new chapter, shoes would be hurled in her direction and windows would be in danger of being opened for suicide attempts.

The teachers, however, appreciated her recitations on those days when the class acted unruly and a suitable non-corporal punishment was needed.

May chalked it all up to petty jealousy on their part. Even when professional and far more learned people than her rejected it, she would harden inside and tell herself that she was just too…what was that word her mother showed her a few months ago? _Innovative_? Yes, innovative. Literarily ahead of her time.

Relaxing to the rhythm of the tires trundling softly over the street, she thought back to when she made the momentous decision to write a book.

The miracle of understanding the magical marks that the whites scribed on paper was unlocked very early in her life when her mother, Lois, the daughter of wealthy Silas Pewterschmidt, secretly home-taught her, as well as the rest of the family, over time.

However, since their perilous journey north, she had heard talk of other slaves who not only knew how to read and write, but had also bucked tyrannical tradition by writing complete books themselves.

Slave narratives were known to be popular, but she wondered sometimes why this was so, if white readers, obviously the larger audience, didn't all learn from them, or weren't moved into complete abolition of, at the very least, the American slave trade. Some days, she would stir herself into a hopeful abandon, wondering if such a miracle would ever happen in her lifetime.

In any event, May made the choice not to follow the herd, and in the months following her family's settling into town, and her younger brother and she being accepted into the only segregated school in the city, May began scribing her tome.

With a limited, yet expanding vocabulary, it was painstaking, but by the time she was done, confidence was high, and upon friends and strangers alike, reading it, reaction was immediate.

Wholly universal dislike.

At first, May figured it needed to be rewritten or maybe changed in a few parts, but that the grand whole of the plot was still good enough on its own merits to survive such a desperate editing.

Revision after revision was done and submitted for people's approval, and it wasn't long before people's reactions to the story became…mixed.

Some wanted to end their lives in the most expedient manner possible upon reading a few paragraphs.

Others felt that killing the _authoress_ would, quite literally, save the nation from the fatal genesis of a plague of bad literature.

And still others, particularly those of a more martial disposition, strangely enough, applauded May's book as possibly the single most effective defense against future attacks from a foreign power.

Clearly, May was not pleased, and it wasn't long before she simply refused to accede to any more changes. In her ego-stroked mind, the book was good all by its lonesome, even if the common, clueless rabble failed to see it. Love her, love the book, indeed.

In response to her frustration, May unconsciously held her manuscript closer to her. She would never openly admit it, but the constant rewrites and accompanying reviews in the negative, created the bothersome fear and paralyzing doubt that she could never write any better than she did. Every time she looked at the book in her hand, or thought about it, even marginally, it only served to remind her of that insecurity, that sliced deeply, yet unobtrusively into her self-esteem, like a well-whetted carving knife.

Yet, the book had also become her security blanket. It was something that she alone created proudly, from her own free will, untroubled mind, and unshackled hand. It gave her a deep sense of well-being and accomplishment, never judging, never fickle, and already she was thinking about putting it under her pillow when she went to sleep again tonight. It put her mind at ease like few things did.

When she felt the bus's deceleration, May took a look at the surrounding storefronts and landmarks, checking to see how much farther she needed to ride.

Peering around to look up ahead, she could see that the bus had stopped to allow a slow procession of draft horse-teamed wagons carrying barrels of beer from the local brewery of a man who hailed from neighboring Pawtucket, to pass.

When she turned back, May could see a small crowd standing on a nearby street corner.

The crowd, a small knot of four white male teens, had come from a corner store, circling and blocking the one target who had passed it a moment before, a comely, redheaded girl, who to May, looked so freckled that she might have been sired by a strawberry.

May had seen her share of accosting, and even been the victim of it once or twice, so she knew what to expect. Her suspicions were soon confirmed by the petty rhetoric one of the boys yelled towards the girl.

"You're pretty brassy taking a walk up here," he said. "You Irish sure aren't smart. What are you? A _Clancy?_ An _O'Shaunessy_ , or what?"

The teenaged girl, terrified of the coming beating and the disheartening knowledge that most of the people walking the street would turn a blind eye, barely managed to squeak, "Mc-" before another boy chimed in with dark vindication.

"See? I knew she was a _McSomething-or-other._ All you foreigners come here to our country and make yourselves at home, and we didn't _ask_ you to. America's for the _Americans_ ," he crowed.

He then glanced over at his compatriots, who made sure they blocked her way thoroughly, with a mean, lascivious eye. A look the stricken girl caught very easily.

"Rotten Nativists," May grumbled to herself as she worked on keeping her attention focused on both the commotion on the corner and the progress of the traffic ahead. It wouldn't be long before the bus started up again. She wondered if she could really pull it off.

"What say we show our Irish lass here some good ol' _American_ hospitality," the boy said, as the gang closed the circle even tighter, darkening the space the girl was now getting squeezed into. "What say you, boys?"

It was getting harder for the girl to breath, and she wondered, in a panic, if it was from the lack of air in this criminal huddle, or because of the fear that was making her hyperventilate. A fear that ramped up sharply when she felt an errant hand stroke her arm.

Then a shout rang out from one end of the street to the other.

" _Hey, assholes!_ "

As one, the boys backed off the girl a little and turned towards the middle of the street, curious as to who would be so bold, or so crazy, as to curse in mixed company in broad daylight like that.

When they, and a few other offended pedestrians, all focused their attention on the black girl with the tattered manuscript, standing defiantly a few feet away from the rear of an idling steam bus, the mob mentally switched targets for just the right moment.

"Run!" May yelled to the girl while gesturing quickly to where she was. She was taking a big gamble when she saw the convoy of horses beginning to end up the street. She had to get her out of there right when the bus took off again. If it wasn't timed just right, _both_ girls would be set upon instead.

The girl's action was lucid and immediate. Seeing the closest, widest gap formed from the distraction, she took off, making sure to tread heavily on one of the boys' feet, so he would painfully open the gap even more so.

The girl flew into the street and her hand was grabbed roughly by May, as she pulled her back towards the bus, which was finally starting to pull away.

May and the girl ran in a panic, gradually closing the distance to the bus's wide, rear panel, and all the while not daring to look back at the dangerous band of ne'er-do-wells yelling hot words and throwing vegetables and small stones at the two of them while giving chase.

Finally both girls caught up with the bus's rear skirt and clambered on as fast they could without sliding off. It wasn't a moment too soon. The bus's steam engine had just kicked up enough pressure to accelerate the vehicle just out of range of the now tiring hoodlums.

May tried to calm her breathing to a steadier pace, but the close call was making that difficult.

"Boy, I never been so happy to be on the back of the bus," she gasped happily. She then glanced over to the Irish girl. "Are you alright?"

"Yes." the girl said, trying to steady her thumping heartbeat. "Thank ye. Thank ye, kindly."

"Hey, no problem. I hate bullies, myself. Besides, I know how the Irish get treated around here," May said with a weary smile, leaning back against the bus to rest. "So, to me, you're just my sister from another mister, y'know? We gotta stick together."

The girl regarded May for a moment as she thought about that comment. She hadn't been in Quahog that long, but she knew from her friends and family the attitude the country's white ruling class and even the not-so ruling class had concerning both the Irish and the blacks.

Already a disquieting state of affairs, it got decidedly worse when she finally got a local taste of the hate just now. As terrifying as that episode was, she knew that she and her people were relatively spared when it came to the American brand of terror.

' _I wonder how this girl and her people coped,'_ the girl thought, glumly.

"It's not easy," May told her.

The girl gasped with a start. Could they read minds?

"What?"

"It's not easy," May amended. "Living here in America. It's not easy for you, is it?"

"Oh…no," the girl solemnly agreed. Then a question blurted from her that made her frustration more than evident, even though her modesty regretted the loss in self-control to a relative stranger.

"I can't understand it. Why would whites be after us? Aren't _we_ white?"

"Nope," May answered with an understanding smile. "Not to them. You're _Irish_ , but that's okay. Some folks just can't handle that." A blush of pride crept into the girl's face in response.

"So, what were you doing in the _nice_ part of town?" May asked to break the ice.

"Oh, uh, I was looking for work in town," the Irish girl said demurely. "Anything they had. I wasn't picky."

"Let me guess," May said. " _'Irish need not apply'_ , everywhere you went."

"Yur right. Do ye work?"

"Not right now. I'm going to school first."

The girl looked surprised at that. "Ye go to school? I thought ye weren't allowed."

May smiled tiredly. "Like I said, it's not easy. My name is May. What's yours?"

Finally learning her benefactor's name put the girl at ease as she reached out and shook May's hand. "My name is Heather. My family arrived here two weeks ago. We're staying at a relative's place while we get settled. It's in a part of town near the river called Hayes Hollow."

May perked up in recognition of the name. "Hayes Hollow? That's Rough-and-Tumble. That's where _I_ live! Tell you what; I'll walk you home. That way I know you'll be alright, and I can show you around, since we're practically neighbors."

"Alright then."

Looking past Heather's shoulder, May saw a familiar storefront, Fanny's Book Shop, signaling that their stop was almost reached.

"Okay. We're almost there," May informed her. She then carefully stood up, and, while balancing on her side of the rear skirt, reached into the rear of the bus's interior through one of the glassless back windows, past the unknowing passengers sitting there, and pulled the signal cord.

At the sound of the bell in the driver's section, the bus slowed to a stop, but the driver looked puzzled when he saw no one exit from the vehicle's main or side passageway.

May and Heather snuck away from the bus as the conveyance started up again and lightly sprayed the two with a light shower of dust and pebbles in its wake.

A plaque was posted on the corner of the street that led into the broad, labyrinthine neighborhood beyond. On its face was printed _Welcome To Hayes Hollow_ , but someone of dubious humor and a paintbrush, had long ago written over the words _Hayes Hollow_ , and wrote instead, _Rough-and-Tumble_.

Even without looking at the sign, the two girls could hear the hubbub of people in the streets, and smell the faint scent of the city's crucial, hard-working river off in the distance. They were home.

"I haven't had much time to acquaint myself to the place," Heather admitted.

"Well, then, let me give you the five cent tour!" May offered.

The quarter was in stark contrast to the brighter, more open neighborhoods that showcased Quahog's gentry. It was architecturally older, its streets were more heavily tracked and rough-hewn and, though some would say it was a trick of the eye, it was visually dimmer than the sky should have naturally permitted.

May gestured to the immensity of the block with wide arms and a dubious grin of civic pride.

**The Rough-and-Tumble Anthem**

(Original Song)

(May)

_Say hello to Rough-and-Tumble,_

_A unique, unfettered place,_

_You'll find nowhere half a humble,_

_Here in these United States_

' _Cept the reason why you're living_ here _,_

_Is mainly 'cause of race,_

_Can't complain, 'cause it's okay,_

_Enjoy your stay!_

Lining both ends of the avenue that was the main artery into the quarter, were those businesses successful enough, to service the citizenry here.

Still, from the windows of the few tobacco, clothing and naval supply shops, and the arcades and promenades that displayed the vibrant, river-caught seafood, bread and vegetable markets, May and Heather could see patrons and proprietors getting along in the business of commerce, as they strolled by…

As the girls headed further into the quarter, the general places of business became fewer, and other buildings, dedicated to more specific clienteles, emerged.

Smoky pool halls and ale-soaked taverns, dingy homes-turned-flop houses that served the visiting sailors in town, barely solvent inns, and shady pawn shops that would happily fence any ill-gotten gain one acquired, formed the heart of the quarter.

One tavern, in particular, caught Heather's attention. One with a weathered sign of a drunken, stylized clam.

"What's that?" she asked.

(May)

_Here's The Tipsy Clam Saloon,_

_A place of excellent repute,_

_Where the liquor's not too watered,_

_And the songbird here is cute,_

_But the barman's_ wife's _the singer,_

_So he might give you the boot,_

_What the hoot! A small dispute's,_

_A drink away!_

As they continued along, watching the contented citizens in the streets, May remarked on them with pedantic fanfare.

"Here is the living blood of the neighborhood. Black people and poor white immigrants, sprinkled here and there with a smattering of slumming bluebloods. A curiously satisfying melting pot of cultures, held together by the commonality of civic oppression and mutual need. Uh, oh."

"What's wrong?" Heather asked May.

May just pointed in a direction up ahead and said, "Her."

A gaily lamp-lit and gaudily painted façade, that looked like it once was part of an equally gaudy steamship, faced out from a large building nearby, like a giant Mardi Gras mask. Above it was an equally gaudy sign that boldly read, "The Pleasure Palace."

A former warehouse, it was renovated long ago and sat on one side of the block, overlooking and giving commanding views of the river. Using its prime location in Rough-and-Tumble to attract a host of worldly clients from all walks of life, it was the flashy jewel of the quarter. To Heather, this was an eye-opener. She had never seen a house of ill-repute before.

Yet, it wasn't the building that drew forth the groan that had Heather curious. It was the appearance on the front steps, of a large-chinned, brunette woman dressed in fashion that, however fine, was tastelessly layered. This peacock of a woman had seen May and waved brightly at the two of them.

"Hello, May!" the woman called out from the top of the landing.

With extreme reluctance, May led Heather to the Palace, stopping at the foot of the marble stairs.

(May)

_This is Madame Glenda Quagmire,_

_And her stock and trade's erotic,_

_But the fact that she wants_ mom and me _,_

_To work here's idiotic_

(Glenda)

_But the boys here have a taste,_

_For the mature and the exotic!_

(May)

_Sad to say, it's not your day._

_We must away!_

(Come on!)

Following the scent of the river in the distance, the two girls headed toward the solitary wood and iron bridge that spanned the cold, vast river. Freighters, sailboats and steam pickets cruised slowly in and out of the ancient, industrious landing that connected Rough-and-Tumble's warehouse district and the cheap flats along its periphery.

Stopping at the very center of the span, May and Heather looked out over the waters. The soft sound of a distant church bell rang in harmony with the bells of the buoys far below.

(May)

_Here is the bridge,_

_That we come to,_

_We can look at the ships,_

_That put to sea  
_

_Check out the,_

_Cut-rate apartments,_

_The warehouses, and church,_

_That baptized me!_

Walking back, they stopped at a hill overlooking the riverfront's landing. A fountain with a wide stone base and ornamentation dominated in the center of it.

May sat on the edge of the basin, lauding the old fixture and its place. Heather had to grin at the spectacle, and, she had to admit, she was beginning to feel a bit at home. It didn't seem to be that bad, in retrospect.

(May)

_Here's a stone and copper font,_

_I come to write here every time,_

_And it overlooks the river,_

_It's a favorite haunt of mine,_

_And I tell you, girl,_

_The sailors here are lookin' mighty fine!_

_Lend you my spyglass,_

_When we're over here next tiiime!  
_

_By The Powers That Would Be,_

_You have been handed your decree  
_

(Heather)

_That they want me to feel guilty,_

_Of the status of my building?  
_

(Both)

_There, on paper, it's to shake us,_

_But it really doesn't faze us,_

' _Cause we're stronger than they make us,_

_Out to be...  
_

(Heather)

_It's not really such a hellhole!  
_

(May)

_That's the motto of this ghetto!_

_So I want you,_

_To say "Hello",_

_To the_

_Rough-and-Tumble,_

_Family!  
_

With a flourish that would have made a Vaudevillian proud, May finished her lively tour.

"Now that you know where you live," she said. "Any questions?"

"Just one," asked Heather innocently. "Who do I have to blow to move out?"

* * *

 

The sunset cast a subtle fire across the residential areas that May, with stooped shoulders, walked through, weighed down by weariness and nagging, little stabs of self-doubt.

Her mood perked up some upon seeing her modestly appointed Cape Cod home on the block. One of _many_ modestly appointed Cape Cod homes on the block. Though they appeared drab in their muted paints and weather-beaten exteriors, to May, they were opulent in beauty and palatial in comfort compared to the ramshackle slave quarters she was born and grew up in.

Finally, May reached the front step of her house, calling out, "I'm home," while stepping into the vestibule.

To the left of her was a closed door that led into the parlor, where the best of the house's furniture was displayed and was the location of her parents' bedroom and her youngest brother's crib.

Up ahead was the staircase that led to the loft space above where her younger brother Curtis and she had bedrooms, and to the right, she saw light coming from the opened door leading into the all-purpose hall, a large room that took up the entire length of that side of the house and served as the center of activity for the family.

She entered the room as her family was taking their ease in the forward center of the hall. Her black father, Nathaniel, sat deep in his rocker in the corner, contently listening to his white wife of seventeen years, Lois, playing with delicate speed on her harpsichord by the window.

Her obese, younger brother Curtis sat on a large settee by the wall that ran along the same side as the hall's fireplace further back. Knife in chubby hand and shoes buried in shavings, he was carving an intricate figurine that belied his pudgy fingers' dexterity. On the center of the wide, colorful, Quaker-made rug, her youngest brother, the baby, Huey Griffin, was prone, drawing crude pictures of plants on a piece of paper.

For the family's humble budget, the chamber was pleasing and was given character by those little touches that only a woman could bless a house with to turn into a home.

The rich smell of something in the back of the hall, slow-cooking by the fireplace, completed the picture of hearth and home to her. Depression could always be tackled with a full stomach.

Upon noticing May's arrival, Lois switched songs and played up the introduction to The Addams Family Theme Song, her favorite piece of music. May, as well as the rest of the family, followed along and snapped fingers at the proper time.

Although this would have normally elicited good feelings from all involved, Lois, instead, took the opportunity after the musical interlude, to point a disapproving finger at her daughter.

"Where have you been, young lady?" she scolded. "It's getting dark out there."

"It's getting dark in here, too," Nate joked from his chair.

Normally, such a joke would have tickled her, but worry had colored her mood this time. "Nathaniel Griffin, stop that, that's not funny," she reprimanded her husband before turned her attention back to May. "Well, young lady, let's have it."

"I'm sorry, Mom," May said. "I just went over to Ragg's again today. Hoped he'd change his mind, that's all." She tactically decided not to tell her about saving Heather that afternoon. The last thing she wanted was a fretful mother really clamping down on her outdoor activities.

"And _did_ he?" Lois asked.

"No," May sulked before she jumped into a defensive rant. "But that's only because Ragg's old and doesn't know what he's talking about. He said that my story was horrible, as usual, and that the chapters were too long. But I love long chapters, Mom. Nice, _big_ , long chapters. Big, _thick_ , long chapters. Let's face it, Mom! I'm a size queen!"

"Well, you _did_ get that from me," her mother admitted with a sly chuckle. "Alright. You better go and wash up. It's almost supper time."

"Yes, ma'am," May said relievedly. She then turned and went towards the rear door at the end of the hall that led to the water pump out in the backyard.


	3. 3

"Supper time," Lois called out by the large, iron cooking pot that hung in the hearth.

The fireplace that served the rear of the hall, which itself, functioned as a kitchen/dining room area, was decorated with cut lengths of herbs and other aromatics, tied in bunches along the span of ribbons that were then festooned across and draped around the flue.

The family gathered around a fair-sized dining room table of humble design that sat in a corner between the counter and the cabinetry that served the kitchen space, and a polished brass spittoon that held flowers leading back out in the hall.

"So," May asked her father, after grace was said, and she gulped a full forkful of hot food from her plate. "How was work today?"

Nate forked another quick mouthful and then managed to say, "Not too bad. Somebody only lost two fingers this time at the factory, so we still managed to keep our spotless safety record."

"That's cool."

Nate was about to shovel more food in, when he spoke up again. "Oh, yeah. Your mother says that a man from the government came by today to ask about your book."

All thoughts of eating ceased in May. Frozen in emotion, like a rabbit in mid-decision, May stared wide-eyed at Nate. _'Finally!'_ she exaltedly thought. _'Somebody wants my book! But who?'_

"He did?"

"Yeah. Said something about weapons research and development?" Nate managed to say before breaking down into a fit of laughter from his end of the table. Other family members joined in soon after.

May fumed as her heart sank in a sea of disappointment. She hunched her head down so low in embarrasment that she felt like a turtle. There was nothing wrong with a little fun at the dinner table, but certainly not at _her_ expense!

"Ha, ha," she chuckled mirthlessly as the laughter began to die down. Then, with a tired voice, she entreated. "Come on, Dad, don't tease. I had a rough day today."

"Okay, Sweet Pea," Nate said with a smile. "Just havin' fun with ya."

Lois, from her end of the table, reached over and patted May's hand in commiseration.

"Oh, don't you let you father rile you, Honey," she told her. "Somebody's bound to like your book eventually…someday."

May just pushed the food around in her plate in a funk. "Someday, someday. Yeah, always a 'someday', but never _today_. You know what people tell me to do? Write what I know. But, really, what _do_ I know? How to go to school? How to help with the laundry? How to be a field hand, or how to get dumped by the cutest groom in town? Oh, yeah, I can just see the words flowing across the page."

"Now, May, you gotta be patient," said Nate. "Look at me. Someday I just know my star's gonna shine for me.

May rolled her eyes at him. "Ugh! Dad! Not that old chestnut again. How are you going to have this…DMZ without those vehicle things, if that's what it's for?"

"Ah, but you see," her father continued slyly. "That's _not_ what it's for. It's for getting back at the white man for all of this unnecessary, uncalled-for bullshit he's puttin' us through. I'm simply doing my part, that's all."

Little Huey perked up at his father's words, telling him, unnoticed, "As are we _all_ , Father. For example, I've just found out about this delightful little compound that comes from the Castor bean!"

"Well, maybe," May conceded. "But I just hate all of this _waiting_."

"I know how you feel, May. You're young. And the most important thing young people want to do is to make their mark in the world. And someday, when you meet that special someone, you, _too_ , will make your mark in the world, and be the best mother you can possibly be," Nate told her.

May thought she missed something in the conversation, or maybe her father had from _his_ end.

"Huh? But, Dad, I want to make my mark on my _own_ terms. With my writing."

"You will, Honey," Nate soothed obliviously. "And when you start that family of yours, you know your mother and I will be there to help. You won't be alone, I promise."

May had to sigh. He meant only the best for her, but it was obvious that, in the context of women, Nate was no different that any other man, white or black, and far too set in his ways to understand a rebel like her.

And the fact that her mother didn't defend her just then, only demonstrated that _she_ was in the same camp, probably bolstered by thoughts of little grandchildren running underfoot.

"Yes, sir," May said glumly.

"That's my girl," Nate proudly said. "It'll be alright. Remember what I always said…"

On cue, the children said in various states of enthusiasm, "If Life slaps you in the face, kick it in the balls!"

"That's right," their father commended.

Lois took the opportunity to wag a finger at her eldest son, just as he was putting the finishing touches on the sculpture he was working on earlier. "And Curtis, what have I told you about doing your carvings by the dinner table?"

"To not to," he answered glumly, putting it away and preparing to eat.

May gave a sly smirk at the tableau. A chance to get a little payback from one of the laughers sounded like a perfect idea, and Curtis looked ripe for picking on.

"Oh, by the way, Curtis, I saw what you were whittling earlier," May said teasingly. "You're wasting your time, y'know? That Cassandra D'amico doesn't want to have anything to do with you."

Seeing Curtis' big frame stiffen in shock was like Christmastime to her, so she luxuriated in the moment.

Curtis fixed a defensive glare at his older sister. "Oh, yeah? Well, what makes you think I'm thinking about her, anyway?"

"The fact that you've carved enough nudes of her to fill a bucket, or you're filling a bucket _because_ of the nudes, I can't tell which," she said salaciously. When all eyes fell on him, she knew she had delivered the coup de grace.

It amazed May that someone who looked like a minature Nate Griffin could look so small, as Curtis struggled for a lifeline from such a devastating round.

"W-What are you talking about?" he asked tensely.

Upstairs in Curtis' room, in his closet, on a shelf, was a collection of Cassandra D'amico carvings in various poses, some tasteful, some not so, festooned with a little sash above the display that read _The D'amico Collection._

Curtis was already weighing suitably grim retaliations against his dear sister, when the worse thing in the world happened to him. He dared to take a glance at his mother and saw not disapproval in her eyes, but stinging maternal _pride_.

"Why, Curtis Mayfield Griffin, did you find yourself a sweetheart?" Lois gushed at the news.

"No, no, Mom! Not really!" he yelled in a panic without meaning it.

He turned to look at May. "Mom said to stay out of my room, May! You're not suppose to be there!" He then calmed down and said to her in an unexpectedly snarky tone, "Besides, it's not like _you_ had a chance with that _blacksmith's apprentice_. He was probably going to use you for shoeing practice."

The comment hit May like a blow on the head, and his accompanying laughter didn't help matters. How did he _know_ about that?

Although her dark skin barely showed it, she blushed so hot, she thought her face was on fire. She couldn't even count on her developing literary powers of imagery and wordplay to metaphorically knock him on his broad back.

Crudity would have to suffice. "You take that back, you...you pot belly!"

"Make me, you four-eyed tadpole!" he fired back.

While the War of the Words reached its new plateau, Huey, still scribbling on his piece of paper, lifted his ovoid head up at the distraction and angrily yelled to no one who would notice, "Will you two disagreeable ragamuffins be quiet? If I can't work out the poison compound of this species of Castor bean, I'll never be able to strike a deathblow against The Man!"

As the arguments and motherly calls for civility began to escalate, Nate looked upon all of this familial strife and grinned in relaxed satisfaction.

"Ah, nothing warms a home like the sound of good-natured sibling rivalry."

The swollen moon sat low in the black sky, engaged in its slow fan dance with the clouds on that warm night. To the things that lurked, and moved, and hunted in the dark, rough foot paths and back alleyways of both the poorer neighborhoods and the wealthier, supposedly more secure ones, the moon was the only light worth living by.

The figure felt more at home here in the velvet shadows between the back fences that just barely formed the demarcation of the rows of inferior housing and the surviving islands of nature that bore both the brunt and witness of lackadaisical city planning. The loneliness of hearing the quiet, practiced footfalls in the figure's wake, or the owl in the boughs, or its prey on the ground, was as much pleasure as penance.

The dim, rustic backyards of the dim, shabby houses all looked the same to the figure. All harbored a functioning outhouse of some sad design that stood far from the precious water pumps. All protected by wooden fences that could only laughingly be call maintained. Some were either roughly tilled and turned into vague vegetable, herb, or flower gardens, or left as they were, to let nature reclaim them as a jungle landscape of weeds and broken, half-buried wagon wheels. None of them were lit and all of them were vulnerable.

The figure had mentally paced the distance of the walk in the dark wooded paths, and concluded that the next backyard ahead, was where it should end.

A yard or two across from the yard's fence was a broad tree whose canopied shade hid the figure like a shroud upon his reaching it.

The old Cape Cod house was dark from within, only the faintest lamplight from the master bedroom in the first floor parlor's rear window was visible. With the moon just now hidden by cloud cover; he dared to leave the tree slowly.

The blackness of the cloaked and tattered box coat, trousers and road-worn boots gave The Hooded Coachman more than ample camouflage, as he risked heading further out from the safety of the tree's canopy.

He had garnered more than enough strange looks and fearful stares from those who were questioned and those who simply watched the proceedings, but eventually the truth was ferreted out, and so, he arrived.

His heart and body froze as the back door opened unexpectedly. With a quick, turning leap, he returned to the back of the tree. He hadn't seen who was coming out, but if it was in response to someone miraculously noticing him prowling in the woods, he was thankful for the sap in his pocket.

The sound of a nasally-voiced woman called out from the house's interior, low enough not to disturb neighbors, but loud enough for who ever was coming out to respond.

"May. It's getting late. Time to go to bed."

May, in a cool, white, linen nightgown, stepped out into the backyard, but called back from the back door's threshold.

"I will in a minute, Mom. I just want to step out for some air."

"Alright, but hurry up."

May walked past the pump that stood by the doorway's short brick staircase and slowly strolled into Lois' small, all-purpose garden.

She lifted her head to see the silent drama of the stars, and listened to the distant steam whistles of the ships still moving to and from of the distant riverside. It always struck May that they sounded like the lively heralds of adventure during the day, but sounded so lonely and mournful at night.

The Coachman counted the fleeting moments since he hid. He needed to know who was out there. He heard womens' voices, but it didn't mean that the men folk couldn't have followed them out in secret, preparing to outflank him.

From the depths of his threadbare coat, he pulled the leather and lead cudgel free, mentally weighing the good, familiar heft in his hand. The sap and his hidden blade were his silent weapons and good friends, the rod and staff that comforted _him_ , but the guilt of what he may have to do, would not leave him this night.

**The Booty of the Night**

(Sung to the tune of "The Music of the Night" by Andrew Lloyd Webber)

(Coachman)

_Right and wrong delays investigation,_

_Conscience spurns my shameful occupation,_

_Someone's by the fences,_

_Alone and quite defenseless..._

He turned slowly to peer out from the tree, and saw, as the clouds were finally disrobed from the moon, an earthbound angel.

The moonlight fell on her in a soft, unearthly blue, and made her nightgown look almost diaphanous. She watched the stars wink and twinkle above her, and even took in the view of the dark woods beyond her yard, on occasion, but didn't see him. For his part, his heart had cracked. Cupid had forgone a bow in place of field artillery.

Then May, suddenly curious as to what her mother was growing, casually turned from him and bent down to look. The moment he saw her nightgown-accentuated bottom, the Coachman's infatuation, and now newborn _lust_ , fought a war for the history books.

He would never know why he did what he did next. Maybe because he needed to see her more clearly, or maybe because he tired of the miserable life it represented, but he felt the need to free himself from the hood that hid him, right then and there.

Quietly, he slipped the covering from his head, revealing the grateful visage of a young, black male. Yet, as youthful and full as his face was, his eyes bore the dark testimony of his shameful actions. He, however, had forgotten them upon seeing May.

She was his lathe of forgetfulness, his desperate opiate. For one night, this night, he was absolved of all of his sin. For him, she had to have been divinely fashioned.

(Coachman)

_Lovely, enchanting,_

_More than words could render,_

_Grasp it, seize it,_

_Worship and rear-end her  
_

 

_A clever turn of phrase,_

_Can ignite a conversation,_

_And bring illumination and delight…  
_

 

_I'll listen to the booty of the night...  
_

 

_Turn your eyes from society that hurts and schemes,_

_You've been taught naught but lies you've heard before,_

_Own the skies, tell your heart that you want more,_

_And I'll give like I never gave before...  
_

 

_Softly, carefully,_

_Slowly, I'll undress you,_

_Touch it, feel it,_

_My rod will impress you  
_

 

_Hope that you won't mind,_

_That my fantasy's aligned,_

_With your hotness, that you know you cannot hide…  
_

 

_The roundness of the booty of the night...  
_

 

_Your behind's a journey to a strange new world,_

_Cleaves all thoughts of the ones I knew before,_

_Let my love take you where you want to be,_

_Or perhaps, we'll stay home and watch TV  
_

 

_Oh, May! Please stay,_

_Sweetest of confections,_

_Your back porch,_

_Inspires my erections  
_

 

_I know that you're modest,_

_But that's when you're your hottest,_

_The power of your beauty's out of sight!  
_

 

_The power of the booty of the night...  
_

 

_You, alone, bring beauty to my life…  
_

_Help me take the booty of the…Night  
_

Satisfied with what she saw, May sauntered back into the dark house, but gave a curious half-turn back to the yard from the threshold. She thought she heard something out in the woods. Something musical, perhaps?

With a shrug, she reentered the house and closed the door, while her dark admirer disappeared bittersweetly into the shadows.

* * *

 

Fanny's Book Shop wasn't impressive by any architectural standard, just a large, brick corner shop that sat across the wheel-tracked streets from the thoroughfare that led into Rough-and-Tumble, but to May, who stood enraptured in front of its display window that mid-day, after chores, it was El Dorado.

Her household had several books, she knew, from The Bible, to old cookbooks, from a few dime novels, to newspapers, and the most prized and beloved books she had ever known were the old school primer and worn-out dictionary her mother would read to her while she grew up.

But she hungered for more literature, more books, and more things to read. To her recollection, she never had a reason to think herself obsessive, but welcomed this desire of becoming a bibliophile, even if she didn't know what the word meant presently.

From the display inside, the books, with their rich, colorful covers and well-made bindings, were placed in eye-catching stacks and neat, appealing piles. Book pyramids and walls that defied gravity, winding staircases of tomes and pamphlets that were laid out on the floor of the display like waves on a wind swept sea. May's imagination swam free in the product placement. She could see herself in miniature, playing among the open pages, absorbing all of their knowledge, climbing the Tome Pyramids and swimming in the Pamphlet Sea.

And in the center of the literary landscape, on a pedestal of honor, would be an autographed, first edition printing of her book, its title boldly shown on its virginal cover.

As she basked in the enveloping, imaginary glow of intellectual adulation, May chanced to see some movement from the store's interior, a customer making a purchase.

May was about the scan more of the display space for more tantalizing books, when a sign she hadn't notice since she came to the store, hung high off to one side of the window. When she read it, her bookish dreams faded swiftly with a heavy, bitter aftertaste in her heart.

NO BLACKS ALLOWED.

May felt like The Morningstar, looking through the unyielding, gilt gates of a paradise she was never cast out from, and a sad, bitter laugh threatened to burst from her guts. She found it the height of irony that for a people that didn't want her to read at all, they would go through the trouble of printing something like this for her benefit.

Still, she wouldn't go just yet. Unless a constable shooed her away for loitering, window-shopping was still something she could enjoy, however meager. So, she desolately perused the hard and soft-covered fare in silence.

Though the interior of the display was dark enough that one could see the street reflected from the window, May didn't notice the black, nineteen year-old, young man behind her until he spoke.

May jumped and turned at the sound of a greeting she couldn't understand, and attempted to focus her attention on the stranger as if she had just woken up.

His face seemed friendly enough, but she kept her senses and defenses up as she took a look at him.

The fellow casually stood about a half-head taller than her, but raised his hands in a placating gesture to her start. He had a solid build for someone his age, which meant, to her, he certainly wasn't a house slave, yet he wasn't too broad-shouldered. From the faint smell of hay, May figured that he must have worked around horses quite a bit.

Boots, gray work pants, and a French flax linen shirt gave him the appearance of an unskilled worker, but his brown, leather vest and white rabbit's foot on a fob chain, lent a rakish air of adventure to him, as though he traveled much and did much.

' _Not bad looking,'_ she thought in appraisal. _'Kinda cute, but I don't think I've seen him around here before. And with all the boys I've been chaising since I've been here, I_ know _he's a new face.'_

She decided to start the ball rolling and speak first, if only to know what it was he had just said to her.

"I'm sorry," she said, composing herself. "I couldn't understand what you were saying. Could you say that again?"

The teen chuckled smoothly and said in a Southern accent that sounded on the cusp of being foreign, "I said, _"bon jour."_ That means, "Hello," cher."

"Oh! Uh, hello!" May managed, a little intrigued by the strange words and the strange boy who said them. "I'm sorry I didn't notice you there. I was thinking about something else."

"The books, cher? I take it you were a little upset."

"Huh?" How did he know?

He pointed at the NO BLACKS ALLOWED sign and May gave an embarrassed chuckle at the obvious clue.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I was a little down about that, wasn't I?" she admitted. "I was just wishing I could read them, that's all."

"You can't read 'cause you weren't taught?" he asked in what sounded to May like genuine concern for someone he just met a moment ago.

"No, no. I can read well enough. My mother taught me how when I was younger. I just want to _keep_ on reading, y'know? Why stop?"

When he said nothing and smiled at her, May suddenly wished she hadn't said so much. "Just great. Now I guess you know what a _bookworm_ I am," she fretted. "I know. No man wants a woman who's smarter than him. Sorry about that. You can laugh now."

"For someone who just met me, you sure don't know me," he placated with a chuckle. "But I know what you mean, cher. I learned how to read from my mama for a while, too. Then I learned from reading old scripts."

That caught her attention. "Scripts?"

"Yep. I'm a traveling actor and my troupe has come to town for a spell. I was taking a stroll 'round the neighborhood and I guess I bumped into you. Not a bad bit of good luck, huh, cher?"

"No, I guess not," May agreed, taking a glance at his good luck charm on his chest. Then a question struck her. "By the way, that word you keep using, _"cher?"_ What does it mean?"

That elicited another chuckle, this time it was lower, more sensual. "Oh, I mean nothing by it. It's French, it just means, "dear." "

' _Dear? Whoa…'_

May flushed. "Oh…okay."

"I'm feelin' a little hungry," he said.

"Me, too," May said, without really thinking.

"I saw an open-air market across the street, there. I can get us some apples or something, and we don't have to grace this establisment with our presence. Sounds good?"

May just said, "Uh, huh," again without really thinking.

As they crossed the wheel-tracked street, May had to admit that she was having a hard time thinking about her earlier disappointment at the bookstore. He was looking to be proof positive that there was always something good around the bend.

When they managed to reach the bazaar's fruit carts from the hustle and bustle, and press of customers, the teen offered his hand and said to May, "Forgive my manners, cher. I didn't give you my name. Deuteronomy, but you can call me Dewey."

Upon shaking his hand, May suppressed a threatened shiver, but decided not to give him her name just yet. Then he added, "Strong grip you got there."

"Field hand, since I could walk. You?" she said, with a noticeable tone of pride in his noticing her strength. He was getting high marks in her book for that.

"Same thing for a while. Cotton or tabacco?" he asked amiably, as though their individual trials were as trivial as the steady events of the work-a-day world.

"Cotton."

"Tobacco," Deuteronomy answered, "But I think the ones that pick that new crop from South America are the lucky ones…"

_A vast plantation of marijuana spreads out in the vista, being worked on by field slaves, who, one by one, secretly bend down and disappear into the green field._

_A moment passes, as a thin wisp of smoke rises and then a giggle is heard, followed by another, and then another. Each accompanying a corresponding puff of smoke. Soon, the entire field is cloudy and erupts with a chorus of wheezing giggles and intoxicated laughs.  
_

May looked wistfully upon that image. "Yeah... But still, you're an actor. That must be cool. But, do people still give you a hard time because you're black?"

"'Fraid so, sad to say. But what about you, cher? What do _you_ want outta life?"

"I want to go to Brown University and be a famous writer," she said. "But I get my share of hard knocks, too. I'm a mulatto, so, I guess I thought that being half-white would help me get my foot in the door."

"Doesn't always work out that way, huh, cher?" he sympathized. Then he brightened again. "But, that's okay. There's nothing wrong with a little cream in the coffee. I'm half-n-half, too. What's your name?"

May decided then and there, that if she felt this comfortable talking to him now, it wouldn't hurt to give him her name now. With a guarded shyness, she said, at last, "May. May Griffin."

"A pretty name, if ever I heard one," Dewey said.

May simply shrugged. "I'm glad _you_ think so."

"What? You don't like your name?"

"Well, I do," May sighed. "But...well, you see, when I was born, my parents had to keep my birth a secret, or they'd get in big trouble."

"See, my grandpa _owned_ my dad, but his daughter fell in love with him and married him. When she was pregnant with me, she would just tell Grandpa that she had the "stomach mumps," and needed to rest when she began to swell up. Lord only knows why he believed her, but it worked."

"Well, anyway, at the time, my folks could never decide on what to call me. They'd bandy names about and argue, but nothing was ever resolved. So about two weeks after my birth, my parents were still fussing about names for me, when Grandpa Silas walked in on them in the cellar. Why they had to be in the cellar, I have no idea. Anyway, Mom was caught red-handed breast-feeding me and Dad was a locomotive wreck. He just froze."

"But Mom was pretty quick, though. She told Grandpa that I was a baby born from another slave family and that she bought me from _them_ , and that she was just asking Nate what kind of name to give me, since I was Pewterschmidt property now. Dad still just sat there."

"That seemed to do the trick, though, because Grandpa didn't look suspicious any more, just critical, like he was wondering if Mom had made a good buy with me. Then he smiled, which was rare, since, according to my folks, he wasn't burning down a house, swindling someone out of their money, or both."

"He took a good look at me and then suggested, as a joke, that I be named, "May…" "

" _It's perfect, see?" Silas said. "When she grows up and gets put to work, she'll never forget it."_

_Lois and Nate gave the old man a baffled expression. They couldn't see where he was going with this, but because of the dangerous spot they were both in, both were ready to humor him when he finally finished._

" _Because…" he chuckled with self-satisfied pride in his own cold sense of humor. "Because when she says to her owner, "'May' I get this for you?" the owner can say, "Yes, you 'may!'" Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh…oh, I'm funny."  
_

"Well, at least it was better than two weeks of, "Come here lil' Something-Or-Other." " May continued. "Anyway, they ducked a serious bullet that day, and I came away with a new name, finally."

_Silas turned to leave the nervous family, oblivious and very pleased with himself. The couple breathed a silent prayer of gratitude at the close call, but froze again when Silas stopped and said from over his shoulder at his daughter, matter-of-factly…_

" _Oh, and Lois, I know you want to make the girl feel right at home and all, but take your tit out of her mouth, will you? You'll spoil her."  
_

"See?" May said.

Dewey gave a thoughtful smile at the tale. "I see, but I still think it's a nice name for you. Never mind the reasons."

A coy smile played on May's face. "Awww, thank you. What about you? Why are you called Deuteronomy?"

Dewey, for all his charm, gave May a self-conscious look.

"Ah, well...My mama was sold to a bible salesman before I was born. It was either this...or Gideon!"

* * *

 

Lois had the look of a woman who had denied herself for too long and then suddenly decided to drown in her luxuries.

Inside Samuel Bros. Clothiers, she moved among the shelves and racks of gowns and farthingales like a shark, scanning the best fashions in the area by naked eye alone. It felt good to shop like this, with abandon and saved-up money. It almost felt like the good old days.

She had a fortune to play with then. The world was the biggest oyster she dined upon and self-control was not an option. Her father saw to that.

With a sad smile, she remembered the days when she and her social butterfly compatriots would think of the most scandalous things to do, just for want of doing it. What her friends must think of her now, if at all. The debutant, now the scandalized. The socialite, now the pariah.

At least here, her secrets were her own. She could look into the eyes of other white women and fear no reprisals, due to their ignorance of her past. Through her sacrifice, she proved to her husband, of twenty years, that on this earth, there was no greater love than hers. So, for a little while, when she had the money, or even just to browse, she could come here and treat herself to feeling… _normal_.

Almost immediately the word shamed her. Why did she feel this way? Wasn't her love for her family enough? In the eyes of the law, she was the criminal. In the eyes of her father, she was the whore. Why didn't she _relish_ turning her back on all of that condemnation, and just look to the horizon with Nathaniel and the children?

Absently, she picked up another gown and thoughtlessly rubbed her fingers against its surface, gauging the silkiness of the satin finish and hardly feeling it.

The man in the military-style clothing standing behind her was the image of incongruity in a womens clothing shop. A figure of tall bearing and tight handlebar moustache, he stood in impeccably tailored black trousers and shoes, a stately, slate gray Army uniform's caped cloak coat with a leather, bullet-studded bandoleer running from under the cape and across his broad chest, and a pair of tiny, smoked-lens spectacles sitting high on the summit of his hooked nose. He watched Lois with a quietude that was unnerving, like a cat standing motionless before the pounce.

The occasional glances the other patrons gave him didn't faze him a jot as he approached Lois quietly. When he felt he was close enough without disturbing her too profoundly, he spoke to her, in low tones, as if reciting a poem for her.

"Do you feel like a phantom when you come to a place like this? When you walk around the other women, do you understand the sad sacrifice you made? That you may walk amongst these white women, but you'll never be one of them again."

' _Cajun,'_ Lois thought first, when she heard his voice. _'But not anyone I know.'_ Turning her head to regard him, she maintained her poise, but drew her defenses up tight. _'How could he know? What gave my feelings away?'_

"What?" she asked, trying to hold a poker face and losing.

The man in the military-style clothing gave a mirthless smile and continued his talk.

"That was mighty clever of you. Keeping your marriage a secret, and all. Makes sense, seeing how it's illegal. Made it pretty hard to track you for a while, that's for damn sure."

Lois gritted her teeth behind the strain of attempting to look innocent, eyes flashing from one nearby customer to the next, looking for the faintest hint of curiosity on their part, and screeching black curses in her mind towards the man who didn't seem to care who may have heard him.

"I beg your pardon. Who are you?" she almost seem to growl.

"No one of importance, I assure you," he said as he bowed humbly. "I was wondering, however, if you would be so kind as to read this letter that I was sent to deliver to you?"

Letters? Her secret was probably moments away from being known and gossiped about town, effectively dooming her, and he was doing all of this performance art for a delivery? Despite the fearful visions of losing her family and spending the rest of her natural life in a stockade, Lois beat them down and looked at the messenger with iron eyes and spoke in a soft, steely voice.

"I don't think so. Now leave me alone, or I'll have the constable on your ass so fast, you'll think you're the new guy in a prison shower."

The opposite effect, however, came about, she saw sadly, as the man, instead, grinned and said, almost flirtatiously, "Ooh, you _do_ have sauce, I tell you what. But, I still think you ought to read this here letter. Your daddy would appreciate it."

_Daddy?_

Her throat tightened into a anxious knot, rivaled only by her stomach. The fear of incarceration and familial destruction, now had become _nigh-inevitable_ , now that her father, Silas, was involved. Two years. Not nearly enough time to settle down. Not nearly enough time to say good-bye.

"Daddy?" Lois asked in a weakening voice, all bravado leaving her like smoke. "What's this all about?"

The messenger shrugged. "Damned if I know, cher, but I suggest you read the note and come up with your own conclusions."

He reached into one of the coat's slash pockets and smoothly pulled out a envelope. Upon receiving it, Lois could see it was legitimate from the Pewterschmidt crest on the wax seal, a shield bearing the image of a disembodied hand cluching a bag with the American money symbol on its center.

She walked over to a deserted area of the shop and tore the envelope open, the man keeping a respectable distance away.

_Lois,_

_As you know, you've completely disgraced yourself in the eyes of all Pewterschmidts from now to perpetuity by marrying and running away with the farm equipment. The only reason that you're reading this at all is because your mother requested that I contact you. The only reason on God's Green Earth that I would_ respect _such a request is because your mother is dying._

_Not to sound like a Jewish mother, but naturally, I blame you for this, but apparently, your mother wants to see you one last time before she goes._

_I, however, have a small request of my own. When you come back to see her, and we both know you will, after all is said and done, you will_ stay _here at the mansion for the rest of your life. Oh, and don't worry about Nate and the rest of the family. I'm sure they'll be just as…_ choked up _about it as you are._

_I'll be throwing a little party to celebrate your returning home, so, if you can, try not to be fashionably late. I don't think your mother would appreciate it._

_We're looking forward to seeing you again, Lois. You_ and _your family. So we can all take a_ stab _at_ burying _the hachet, to_ hang _all of this foolishness, to_ kill _some time, and_ shoot _the breeze, to_ drown _our sorrows. Well, you get the idea._

_Silas  
_

Lois numbly held the letter by her side. The truth, if it really was the truth, was like a bombshell going off in her hands.

"Mother's… _dying?_ "

Like a cataract, the memories of time spent with Margaret Barbara Bush Pewterschmidt rushed into her with a doleful surge. Between the two parents, she got along better with her, but if Lois' father was ever distraught by that fact, he never showed it.

But now Margaret was going to die and their time remaining flowed from Lois' hands like stream water.

The sound of the messenger shifting his weight to stand more comfortably, brought Lois back to reality, forcing her mind to look at this rationally, critically. Everything about this screamed _trap_ to her. For her, in a lesser sense, and for the family, in the truest. She resolved herself to not become the lynchpin to their possible lynch _ing_. She turned to him.

"Even if what he says about my mother it's true. I can't go back there. My life is here in Quahog with my family." She said as she brusquely returned the note to him. "You can tell him that when you see him again."

Again, the messenger took her words with a detached, almost apologetic air. "Well, now, cher, he kind of figured that you might be a _bit_ reluctant see things his way, so he came up with what I think, was a mighty fine idea."

"What?" she asked warily.

"Well, he told me that, if after you've read the note, you still refused to do what he says, he would give me carte blanche to kill your whole family."

Lois' stomach went cold. "No…" she gasped, wishing she could disbelieve those dangerous words. Another bombshell in as many minutes. Silas was becoming, in her daughter's eyes, to be nothing short of the Devil himself. So who was this messenger? An assassin in his private employ?

"The nice thing about this arrangement, I think," he continued. "Is that I still get paid for the full bounty, regardless. I gotta hand it to Mister Pewterschmidt. He can be down right generous when he wants to be. I guess this is the part where I say, 'The choice is up to you,' or something ridiculously obvious like that."

The answer clicked and didn't make Lois feel any better. That's how he tracked them so well.

"Bounty? You're a bounty hunter?"

"And slave catcher by trade," he said proudly. "But it's so rare to find a job that combines both aspects of my profession."

Lois ignored the self-important chatter. Fighting the urge to scream in a panic, and thus cause an unhelpful scene, she desperately asked, "Where's my family?"

The man shrugged innocently in the direction of the front door. "Oh, they're right outside, cher. Snug as a bug."

"Let's go," she ordered.

 _The Hessian_ stood off by the curb, looking big as life in the sunlight. Its two-horse team snorted as Lois and the man left the shop and walked over to the coach.

Without any fanfair, the man reached over and opened one of the passenger doors, which creaked under the weight of its interior armor plate, presenting Lois a disheartening sight.

Sitting slumped on one side of the passenger area, all the way to the other end of the coach, was the sleeping bulk of Nathaniel Griffin. Across from the father, on the other side of the area, the brothers, Curtis and Huey shared a bench and were also unconscious. All were loosely shackled with chains laced through iron rings bolted into reinforced plating under the bench's padding. The faint scent of a chemical wafted out and Lois's knees momentarily became unsteadied.

"What have you done to them?" she asked as she stepped back a pace, clearing her head.

"Oh, nothing, cher. Just gave them a little something to relax while we take a trip back to Virginia," explained the man. "I gotta say, though, you must be _some_ cook, 'cause your husband and that big boy in there... _whew!_ I damned near broke my back getting them in there. I mean, I sure hope my horses can handle the extra weight 'cause I didn't think I'd need Clydesdales on _this_ trip,y'know?"

Miffed, Lois looked at the man with unimpressed annoyance. "Alright, enough with the fat jokes, already. I'll go with you."

Pleased that he wasn't forced to press the issue, the man grandly gestured to the coach's box seat above them. "Your chariot awaits, ma'am. No sense in you riding with-"

Lois started walking back to the open passenger door. "I ride with _them._ They're still my family, and I'll be going with them."

She stepped into the coach and sat next to her sleeping husband, putting a worrying hand on his unfeeling cheek, and a protective watch on her sons.

' _Strange,'_ she idly thought. _'I could have sworn I forgot something…'_

The faint scent of ether still tinged the air, and she wondered how long before sufficient exposure would strike her comatose, as well. Quickly seeing an empty pair of seat cuffs, she put them on her wrists in defiant solidarity before sleep would eventually claim her.

"In good times and bad," she said in finality.

The man studied her for a moment, marveling at her serious pluck and feeling a little titillated at seeing her in chains, but mystified as to why she would feel such devotion to essentially future human tree ornaments.

"Hmm, kinky. I like that," he said.

Ultimately, he shrugged it off. Time was fleeing from him, and he had to deliver the guests before his client's wife died.

"Well, let's be off," The Hunter said, and then he closed the heavy door on them.


	4. 4

May couldn't tell what made her more short of breath, or so light on her feet, as she led Dewey through the block to her home; leading him there at such a quick pace, or the fact that she _had_ a young man to lead home in the first place.

Fumbling her key in the lock, May giggled self-consciously for the thirtieth time in as many minutes, drunk on visions of personal success, both professional and romantic.

"I can't believe I didn't have to convince you to take a look at my manuscript," May said with an anticipatory grin. "Not that I _needed_ to convince people or anything…short of attempted blackmale."

"Hmm?" Dewey asked leisurely, leaning against the frame of the front door.

"Nothing!" she said quickly. Then her mind went into feminine wiles autopilot and she tensed as she decided to take a leap of faith. "Anyway, uh, if you didn't need to get back to your people right away, I was wondering, since you're new in town, if maybe you'd, uh, like to…stay for dinner?"

One of Dewey's eyebrow arched in intrigue. "Dinner, huh? Well…I guess I could stay if your folks wouldn't mind. But are you sure about this?"

"Well, why should my parents mind?" May asked, her mind racing with thoughts of _her_ entertaining a guest for once. "It's not like we're sleeping together."

May suddenly felt the air leave her, as though she was punched in the gut. The moment that faux pas stumbled out, May wished she died where she stood. Panicked and blushing, she took a terrified look over to Dewey, who looked pleasantly taken aback, but said nothing.

' _You fool!'_ she thought furiously. _'Stop thinking' about his body, and get that cursed door open!'_

"Oh my God! I didn't mean that!" May tried to amend. "I-I meant…that it wasn't a big deal! I mean…not that _you_ being here's not a big deal! I mean-"

Although Dewey was enjoying the frantic backpedal, he brought his hands up quickly to pacify her. "It's okay, cher! Relax! I bet your folks can cook a mean meal, and I'd be right happy to sit with you a spell. What do you think we'll have?"

May sighed relievedly and suddenly knew what it was like to be passed over by the Relationship Angel of Death.

Calming down, she said proudly, "Well, my mom could make the house favorite. The best clam chowder and cornbread meal you ever had!"

Thoughts of a full meal and an even fuller belly had Dewey daydreaming before he asked her in a teasing voice, "So, tell me, cher. You bring _everyone_ you meet up here?"

May's ears warmed. "What? No! Uh, well, no, I'm...just trying to be a good host, that's all. I'll be learning how to make it myself someday."

"Well, then, I have to try it out."

"Well, it might take a few tries, though." May confessed with a self-conscious chuckle.

"I'd been a guinea pig for worse, believe me," he soothed.

"Oh, yeah? Even if it fattens you up?" she continued teasingly.

"Sure, cher." Dewey perked up. "For a man, that's the best kind of woman to marry."

The statement froze May in surprise, and she found herself locking her stare into his equally shocked eyes.

' _Was that a…proposal?'_ she thought.

Dewey stood dumbstruck. Fearing he would scare her off, and cursing himself for the lack of self-control being on the road so long could create, he quickly switched tact. "I mean…that's…what they say, anyhow."

May shakily recovered from the heady, momentous rush of someday jumping the broom, and finally finished awkwardly working the lock before opening the door.

"Make yourself at home," May bade him breathlessly as they entered the vestibule and she headed up the twisting, center stairway to her room. "You can sit in the parlor."

Dewey entered the silent chamber, choosing the closest seat he saw from him, a rocking chair with a doily on the seat. He opened his senses to receive any notice of other souls in the room, but he knew that it was unnecessary. The house was already empty, save for May and himself. The air was too still, too quiet, and perfumed with the faint, yet recognizable tang of ether.

The Hunter must have come by earlier and caught the rest of them completely off-guard, he figured. Just as he sadly knew _he_ must.

With the greatest reluctance, he traced his strong fingers across the familiar bulge of his sap in his pocket, and pulled it out. Then, with quiet footfalls, he began to turn back to the vestibule, to go up the stairs, into her bedroom, and finish the capture.

Dewey's eyes swept the room noncommittally as he began to leave and it was then that he caught the white of the doily while glancing at the rocking chair again.

A part of him chastised himself inwardly for wasting time with this foolish curiosity. He had to strike her down now, while she wasn't ready, to make this easier, which was laughable, but his hesitation gave him all the impetus he needed to spare May for a few moments, at least.

The incongruity _did_ strike him slightly. It looked too angular to be a doily. It looked more like a square of…what? Cloth? Paper? A card?

He approached it, and was honestly relieved to see a folded sheet of writing paper on the chair's seat. He opened it and read.

Afterwards, he quietly sat down in the rocker and collected his thoughts. He had to. If he didn't sit right after reading what had come to be the most terrible note ever written by Man, he would have tried to destroy May's home with his bare hands. Instead, he put some of his fury into crushing the note in one hand, and hiding his tortured face in the other.

May's descending footfalls could be heard from the doorway of the parlor. Dewey stuffed the crumpled paper in his pocket and brightened his expression before she skipped into the room with the worn first draft in her hands.

"Sorry it took so long. I think my stupid brother tried to hide it from me," she said. "I wonder where my folks went to." Then she took a curious sniff. "And where this smell came _from_."

"It's ether," he deduced for her. "The Hunter's tool and calling card."

"No wonder it smelled like a dentist was working overtime in here," she commented. The sudden remembrance of unfamiliar words, snapped her out of her reverie. "The _who_ , again?"

"You better sit down," he told her, standing up and offering her the rocker.

"Okay," May said, feeling more than a little pensive about this sudden shift in mood. "What's going on?"

The birds were chirping merrily in the trees that grew around the neighborhood. The sprightly cat scampered along the thoroughfares in search of food and adventure, and the odd stray dog trotted by, also looking food or something to do.

The following scream seemed to rip the very air above The Griffins' humble home, and successfully drove every animal from the block into a terrified dash for safety.

"Good thing you were sittin'," Dewey muttered.

"Where are they now? Do you know?" May asked, wide-eyed, in a voice raw with panic and rising in octave. She could take anything the world had to throw at her, as was probably her lot, but not this. "Please! If you know, you have to tell me! Where did they go?"

It was torture of the deepest stripe for him. Seeing her trying to wrestle with her confusion in near-hysterics was breaking his heart as much hers. Her grasp of reality, the safety and security of her comfortable, limited world, was threatening to disintegrate around her, but Dewey gritted his teeth, hardened his heart to the guilt rising in his throat like sick, and pressed helpfully on.

Dewey sighed his answer. "They were probably taken by The Hunter."

"Who the hell's The Hunter?" May asked shakily while she wiped her eyes. Getting an answer, any answer, calmed her and gave her something to focus on.

"He's a bounty man and slave catcher. He's pretty well known up and down the states."

"Well, how come _you've_ heard of him?"

' _She needs more answers,'_ Dewey thought sullenly. _'She deserves them. I'm already damned for what I've done, and when I lie to her, even when I tell the truth, I know I'm going to lose her.'_

With a sympathetic face, Dewey told her, "Well, I've heard about a rash of kidnappings that look like his handiwork in a few of the towns I've been to."

May seemed to wilt before Dewey, as if all of the energy and life that she had just moments before, fled from her like a bird. "Oh, Lord! W-Why did he take them? What did we _do_?"

 _You're a coward!'_ he conscience screamed at him. _'And you're selfish, too!'_ He agreed with that assessment. He couldn't dare tell her how he knew anything about her family's kidnapper.

Ever since the moonlight touched her, he wanted May, and he wanted her to want him, just as much, but full disclosure would destroy every bit of that fantasy.

Yet, despite the fearful intrigue, he still desperately wanted to help her. Wanted to, because he fell in love with her. Needed to, to claw out of Hell.

' _Be an actor,'_ he thought tactically. _'Control your audience.'_

He needed her to come to the right answers, without his input. Or rather, without _too much_ of his input. With reverse psychology, he could play a delicate, risky game with her. This would assist her, as he desired, but as distraught as her mind was, he was having a hard time convincing himself that he wasn't just making a bad situation worse.

"He only does what he was paid to do. So, I guess the question would be, who paid for all of this? Who wanted this to happen?"

As he hoped, May was a fighter, and had clung onto a few scraps of inner control. She leaned back in the rocker, frowned, and ruminated in pained silence.

' _Come on, May.'_ he thought hopefully. _'Figure it out. Put it all together, now. I_ know _you can!'_

He relaxed and breathed a silent sigh of gratitude when he saw her sit up with the look of an incredulous solution dawning across her face.

"No way… _Grandpa?_ "

He put on his best innocent face. "Who?"

"Silas Pewterschmidt, my grandfather! You know, the whole 'May' name thing I told you about? We escaped from his plantation around two years ago so we could be a free family up north. He must have done all of this to get back at us."

"Well, then," he said with honest trepidation, "Now that that's been figured out, I guess…we're just gonna have to go…get 'em back, cher."

May almost laughed at him. " _How?_ What can I _do_? I want 'em back home in the worse way, Dewey, but that means going all the way back to _Virginia_ to look for them. And it wasn't that easy getting _here_! I'll probably end up dead. Or worse, a slave again, but that's okay, I suppose, because if that happens again, I'd _rather_ die. But how does that help _them_? Oh, Dewey, I just want my family back!"

"Didn't you hear what I said?" Dewey asked, a little surprised at how resolute his voice was beginning to sound. "I said _we'd_ have to get 'em back, not just you. We'll just have to figure something out, that's all."

May found herself focused on the young man. She didn't know him from Adam's housecat, but he was volunteering himself so quickly for her.

This horror story of a situation had shaken her to the core so badly that she needed someone to take the pain away, whether it was a stranger or not. So she sat tensely on the rocker, wanting to believe him, wanting to trust him, and clinging onto every word of his pep talk like it was the last life preserver.

"You're right, Dewey. I-I have to try. _I have to try_. I mean…I can't live in this world alone. Not without my family, Dewey. We're _all_ we have, here."

A sense of tragedy seized Dewey's heart with a fist of ice, but he seized it right back, and changed it into one of sincere, if uncertain protection for her.

He looked at her sadly, nervously wringing his hands. "I know, May. And if it…means _anything_ at all, if worse come to worse…I'll…I'll look after-"

"But are you sure about this?" May asked him, wracked with fearful vacillation, and not really listening to what he was struggling to say just now. "Do you really think we can do this? I-I mean, I want my family to come back, but what if we don't make it?"

That thought had gripped him by the heart with icy fingers, too. But he knew that he couldn't help her get anywhere while they both were frozen with indecision in an empty house. They had to act.

Holding her by her shoulders and looking deep into her fear-stricken eyes with iron conviction, he said, as much for his benefit, as for hers, "Hey! Don't talk crazy, now. You hold strong, and if you want your people back bad enough, they will be. I'll…help you get 'em back. I promise."

And with those last two words, Dewey knew he sealed his fate alongside hers. For good or ill, it had begun, yet seeing May's face light up for the smallest glint of hope, made the coming dangers seem, at least for now, so much more bearable.

"Honestly?"

"Damn right, I will!" He said with false bravado, trying to cheer her up, and simultaneously trying to stop his own shaking. "Besides, how can I enjoy any of that delicious clam chowder, if your folks are serving it to Saint Peter?"

The second he saw May's crestfallen face, Dewey truly regretted hearing himself say that. He fell flat on his face with that nervous joke, and the speed in which May began to tear up was something to behold.

"Oh, that didn't come out right, did it?" he asked her in remorse.

May couldn't fight back the fears any longer. Though she tried to be brave for the both of them, the dire thoughts and violent images of every family member killed and dumped in a dark Virginia wood somewhere, made her break down, at last.

" _Waaaahh! Dewey!"_

"No, no, May! I'm sorry, honey, honest!" Dewey said, valiantly trying to calm her down and stop her most sincere Lucile Ball impression. "I-I was just _hungry_ , that's all. I-It's just my stomach talkin'! I swear!"

As he protectively held a completely wrecked teenaged girl in his arms, and wondered about the possibility of home flood damage due to May's barely controlled bawling, he grimly thought, _'All in all, this isn't the way I wanted to hold you in my arms.'_

* * *

The immense Quahog Harbor, just south of Downtown Quahog, berthed, in Dewey's opinion, the best means to get through the first hurdle of the trip for them, the pride of The Fall River Fleet, the massive and opulent paddle steamer, _Plymouth._

Normally, when the great steamships would come to port or leave it, May would only see the sun-brilliant squares trailing smoke on the horizon from her spot on Rough-and-Tumble's only bridge. Now she consciously took in all she saw when she and Dewey reached the busy harbor.

The day was bright and fair, with favorable winds, and if she wasn't burdened with the need to somehow get aboard a fast steamer with very little money, she could have just stayed and watched the deep, magnificent river flowing from Narragansett Bay, breathed the bracing sea air, heard the calling seagulls and busy dockworkers, and spied on the visiting, well-dressed tourists and departing travelers.

"I used to see these ships all the time. I never thought we'd actually get a chance to _ride_ in one." May admitted with a nervous smile, as she heard the stirring song of the hoots of ships' steam whistles and the clear ring of their bells.

"If we don't get caught, God willin'," Dewey said. "Between the two of us, I don't think we have enough to get _one_ of us a ticket, much less the both of us, so we may have to sneak aboard. By the by, cher, why did you bring that book of yours with you?"

"You never know." she said, smiling with anticipation. "There might be a wealthy publisher on board who's looking for that next big story."

"Well, I'd be more interested in not getting thrown in the brig, or worse, the sea." Dewey took a look around and saw an alley across the street from the harbor.

"Which reminds me. Let's go in here," he said. Holding her hand, he led her into its shady depths.

Locating an old vegetable crate, Dewey put it to use as a footstool, placing one foot on top of it, and then pulling up his pant leg.

May started to wonder what Dewey was doing, when she saw what was secured about his leg and understood.

Dewey began untying a sheath holding a whetted knife, from around his shin.

"Things'll get a bit sticky from here on out," he instructed. "So you'll need to defend yourself. Okay, put your foot up here."

May complied and put her foot where his foot now vacated. He kneeled before her and was about to tie the sheath to her, but then looked uncertain. Propriety had stopped him from lifting her skirt up from around the offered leg.

Something May herself had caught. She wondered if he actually would touch her dress, and deep down, wondered even more if she would _let_ him. In the end, she spared him the discomfiture and gathered the skirt's material up along her caramel leg, all the while watching his reactions.

Dewey's mind was a muddle of careful deliberation and raging hormones. He was so physically close to her now, closer than he ever dared for the short time they knew each other. He brought the leather sheath to her warm calf, and couldn't help noticing how her petite frame gave her leg a shapely fullness.

She wasn't skinny, and had some meat on her bones, and he was glad that such a girl appealed to his homegrown aesthetic. It meant, he knew lasciviously, that besides looking healthy, she had the kind of body he could grab hold of, if the animal in him ever leapt out and took over. With her permission, of course.

For May, his touch was electrical. Every rub of contact with his fingers as he carefully and firmly tied off the sheath, created dangerous thoughts in her mind, and made her fingers slightly claw in yearning.

The desirous, non-churchgoing side of her wondered how much _higher_ on that leg would he "accidentally" explore with those fingers. It also made her take stock in the fact that they were, for the most part, unnoticed, in an alley, and the resulting fiery image of the two of them tearing at and _into_ each other, riskily and lustfully, like two stray cats, made her heart dance.

Lost in grip of such erotic reverie, she dreamily looked down to see him looking up at her, mouth moving.

"I said," he said to her. "Is it too tight?"

"No. I don't think I'm too tight, but that's sweet of you to say," May said, coyly distant.

"No, cher." Dewey said, slow enough for her to understand through the haze of her love-addled brain. "The straps?"

"I'm sorry, but not on a first date," she said dreamily.

"For the _knife_?" he pressed, loud enough for the spell to be broken.

"Oh! Uh, no. It's fine. Thank you."

Dewey still was on bent knee to her, contemplating, for the moment, why it felt so right remain thus, but he eventually rose.

"Uh, I'll teach you a few tricks with it when we find some time. Until then, keep it hidden, and don't use it unless it's really necessary. White folks won't need much of a reason to throw us in the jailhouse if they see us carrying weapons around."

"Alright," May said soberly, as she stood up and straightened her dress, her mind getting back on track.

As they returned to the crowded, harbor side of the street, they could just see from the wharf, the _Plymouth_ , already docked and receiving additional provisions, cargo and incoming baggage via crane and pulley, offloading outgoing baggage, and allowing people to either embark or disembark from its steep, lengthy gangways.

"Looks like the cargo's the way to go. Okay, like I told you. Act like you're _supposed_ to be there," Dewey said.

Holding hands and lifting them to shoulder height, with their heads held high, noses lifted in the air, and their other hand placed daintily on their hips, they both force-sashayed through the entranceway into the harbor proper.

In and outgoing people turned to notice the two strange black kids strutting by and calling out words like "Hoi Polloi," "Money," "Fashion," and "La-di-da," before they moved past them.

When the two were out of earshot, the white, moneyed crowds resumed their earnest conversations consisting of those very same words.

Once they walked a far enough within without being harassed, May and Dewey looked seaward, across the distant pier the two lanes of passengers were marching along, and spotted the large wharf sheds and the wide, off-limits loading dock, or apron, that was servicing the steamer that was berthed to it.

The two strolled up the pier through the passengers' outgoing lane, keeping very aware of their footing, due to the fact that the pier, dangerously, didn't have any railing whatsoever, and the currents and waves below it looked threatening.

It wasn't until they reached the imposing side of the sheds and broke away from the human traffic, that the immensity of the place and their challenge to find somewhere to stowaway, became clear.

The whole of the apron was a wide maze of crates and barrels of various sizes, overhung with dark gantry crane arms and cargo netting, all under the steely shadow of the floating colossus of _Plymouth_. The wharf's sheer size threatened to confuse and separate the two trespassers.

Moving together in sync to slip unobtrusively around the shadowed walls and periphery of the buildings, they eventually managed to slink past harbor security and the various gangs of longshoremen, getting in without incident.

"What are we looking for?" May asked, wandering further from Dewey, by increments, as she moved in and out among wooden containers. She peered at a large crate nearby, absently checking at its sides.

Dewey, hearing her voice starting to fade, was doing likewise a few feet away at a similar sized container. "A box we can get into, cher. If I can crack it open, maybe we can squeeze in."

The two shadows that quietly followed Dewey were so large, they could have rivaled a tree's shade. They moved like huge, silent, black sharks around the crates and boxes, and betrayed nothing of their presence to the teenager.

Dewey could only hear the sound of the crate's wooden slates creak as he felt along its surface for weak spots to enter from. The loud puffing of steam engines and derricks lifting freight to Plymouth's deck, the yelled-out orders of the boss stevedore, and his men's responses, and the lapping of the river's strong waves on the wharf's sacrifice pilings and structural support, filled his ears with ambient noise, and so masked the shadows' approach from behind him.

It wasn't until he noticed that the only thing he couldn't hear was May, that he finally stopped his probing and stood up straight to focus his hearing and call her.

By then it was too late. The sound of quick, purposeful movement made him turn to look up and see a rush of flesh coming down from on high and seize his throat.

"Dewey?" May called from within the space between four surrounding crates. He didn't call back and she began to worry that he or she was much too far away from the other and was swallowed up in the labyrinth.

She focused her mind to the task of trying to remember her steps, and slowly began her awkward journey of backtracking and correcting her previous path, eventually returning roughly to where she had her last conversation with Dewey.

May cautiously stepped away from the landmark crate to call out to him again, when she saw something that made her freeze frightfully.

Two huge dock workers, larger, in her estimation, than even The Bookends, stood together a few yards from her, but didn't hear or notice her, due to their preoccupation with the young man in their grasp.

Dewey, using both hands and as much leverage he could generate, tried to pull from the black dock worker, who held him aloft with ridiculous ease, and one hand, while the white one took his ease, casually watching him struggle.

May ducked back around the crate, unseen.

"First The Bookends, now _these_ two?" May whispered to herself in consternation. "Where am I? Monster Island?"

She peeked back around the crate and saw more of the same. He wasn't going to get loose as long as they were focused on him.

Exhaling, May tried to calm down. "Okay. Okay. I gotta sidetrack 'em some how." She looked around for something, anything to use as a distraction. Nothing easy, and nothing fiery came to mind, either, and if, by some miracle, she had something of that nature, accidentally setting Quahog Harbor ablaze would ultimately get her nowhere.

While she kept looking down to check for suitable things on and around her person to use, and finding none, she soon realized that looking at _herself_ was, regrettably, the only answer.

"Well, I guess I've got no choice." May gulped, as she could see no other quick option open to her while Dewey was getting the life choked out of him. She was just thankful that he didn't attract a bigger audience than he did.

Doing her level best to shove her modesty into the deepest, darkest hole in her psyche, May apprehensively stepped out from behind the crate, feeling as though she was about to consciously walk of a cliff, and faced the dock workers.

May squared her shoulders, opened her stance for support, and clutched the already low neckline of her dress. She took a breath.

"Hey, fellas!" she cried out.

As she hoped, the two workers' attentions shifted to May automatically. Unfortunately, so did Dewey's, but she just pushed past her discomfiture concerning that, and pressed on.

She gritted her teeth, fought her enflamed blushing, and stretched her neckline down far enough that her breasts popped out of her bodice, exposing them.

From where she was, May could see that Dewey, despite his face turning a slow shade of purple, to match her terra-cotta blush, was rather impressed.

The same, however, couldn't be said of the two men, who stared at her as though she were a pest who had the poor grace of crawling on a wall and was seconds from extermination.

The black dockworker focused his stare on May, and she felt his eyes rove all over her, but the action didn't match his expression. His visage, like his partner's, didn't convey lust, surprise, or even alarm. Just dismayed disregard.

"Okay, Ms. Thing. Not impressed," the huge, manly-looking stevedore said in a voice so fey and catty, he could have been mistaken for one of Madame Quagmire's girls whenever they had a disagreement. "Put those things away, and if anybody asks, just tell 'em you fell down the stairs."

Both men gave a lilting, haughty laugh at her expense, and May was so dumbstruck by the two of them, that it took a few seconds longer than she normally would have reacted to realize that a). She was the butt of their small-chested joke, and b). She was still exposing the _subject_ of that jest in plain sight of them.

Embarrassed, May quickly brought her neckline back up, and went so far as to self-consciously cover her clevage behind her crossed arms. She wanted to help Dewey escape, but only succeeded in showing him way more than she wanted to, and they weren't even on their first date, yet.

She forced down her anxiety and pointed at the two men.

"Let him go!" she demanded.

The white dockworker gave May a critically dismissive eye, and chuckled to his friend, or, as far as May and Dewey could deduce, his boyfriend.

"Ooh! Check _her_ out!" he scoffed in an equally fey voice. "The Mouse That Roared! You ain't going nowhere, honey."

Dewey, noticing his captors' concentration on May, was given a bit more hope, so he renewed his struggling in the big man's grip, but, literally, for the life of him, he still couldn't break it.

The black man gave an annoyed glance at the boy, and then gave him a sharp shake that threatened to throw him into unconsciousness. Dewey finally stopped protesting.

"And you, little man, best stop all that squirming. My friend and I eat guys like you for breakfast."

As if on cue, his friend chimed in salaciously. "That's right...and if we're _really_ mad at you, we'll beat you up!"

In reaction to that, the black worker lifted Dewey like a half-empty sack and threw him bodily into May with surprising accuracy, just so he could give his partner a hearty high-five and laugh once more.

"You're just too bad, girl!" he told him.

"I know, I know," the white man said proudly. "It's a gift."

The two stopped gabbing long enough to nonchalantly see the two trespassers untangling themselves from the ground, with May unsteadily rising and attempting to get her bearings from the knockdown, and Dewey trying both to stand, and get his voice and wind back.

The black man folded his telegraph pole arms across his billboard-sized chest, confident that the little pests couldn't possibly escape, and said, "I don't know what you and your brother are doin' here, but-"

"He's not my brother," May corrected him as she finally stood comfortably again.

"Well, _cousin_ , then," the white worker said, hazarding a guess.

"He's not my cousin, _either,_ " May said, a little testily.

The two men exchange surprised glances at one another. Looking at May, they couldn't believe it. The black man decided to give it one last guess.

" _Boyfriend?"_

When she fell silent and didn't correct him, the white worker chimed in again.

"Well, he doesn't ask for much, do he?" Both laughed again and May fumed in a funk, oblivious to her predicament.

That oblivion was lifted, however, when the black dockworker quickly inhaled and blew out a sharp whistle into the air.

Instantly, more dock workers, smaller than their two co-workers, but just as mean, came out from around the cargo of the dock, brandishing crowbars, wrenches, and other tools as makeshift weapons, and circling May and Dewey menacingly.

The black worker, followed by his friend, nodded to himself, and slammed his huge fist into his open palm in anticipation to the imminent dust-up.

"That's right, you two. There are thieves in the temple tonight, and we're gonna Batdance up and down your asses," he said with a grin.

As the crowd started to close in, May and Dewey, as if in shared thought, knew space would be at a premium, and so, stood back-to-back, brandishing blade and sap, and watching for the closest worker to move in, and occasionally glancing over at the two man mountains.

With a grim, frightened, and yet, ironic smile, May never thought that she would ever get into a brawl in a steamship dock, while trying to stowaway on a ship that would take her halfway to one of the most dangerous places in the Union for her, all in a foolhardy attempt to save her family… _from her family!_

' _If I ever make it out of this,'_ she thought seriously. _'This'll make a damn good book.'_

But one problem at a time, she knew. Glancing over her shoulder, she asked Dewey, "Are you alright?"

Dewey recovered his voice and gave a curt, regretful nod, while still keeping his eyes on his opponents. "Yeah, cher. Sorry I brought you here. If I can draw enough of 'em to me in a fight, do you think you can get out in the scuffle?"

That elicited another glance from May, more incredulous than hopeful. Pain and she were old friends, and she was no stranger to a beating, deserved or otherwise. Abandoning Dewey? She hadn't even considered that.

"What? I'm not running out on you. Okay, it may look bad, but it's like my dad used to say, 'If Life slaps you in the face, kick it in the balls.'"

Dewey never once heard her say not to sacrifice himself for her, or if he'd be all right alone without her. She stayed her ground, with her back to his, and with the world against them.

' _My God, May Griffin,'_ he thought. _'You are perfection.'_

The crowd was almost at arms' length now, and Dewey mentally prepared for the fight, quite possibly, of his life.

He still wanted her to escape, especially if the fight became terminal, but he also knew, grimly, that if she did that, she would _still_ die. The failure of her family's rescue would see to that.

' _But then again…'_ he tried to think optimistically.

"Well said," he commended her. "I'd like to meet your dad someday, cher."

May stiffened. As much as she loved her father for his hard-won pearls of wisdom and his abiding love for his family, his lowbrow, self-deprecating, and sometimes almost self- _defecating_ humor, sometimes had May wishing she were sold off at an early age.

"No, you don't," she warned him in a quick deadpan.

The crowd, as one, closed in on them like a hand, but before the first blow could be thrown, struck, or blocked, a girl's voice screamed in the air, stopping everyone.

"Wait! Don't fight 'em! I don't think they owe money!" she called out.

The mob slowly fell away from the center, some dispersing, others staying close by.

May and Dewey now had a clear view of their surroundings once more, but very little visibility on their benefactor.

It wasn't until the girl, dressed in a cap, greasy overalls, and a pair of work gloves, stepped from behind a crate that was oriented in the direction that led to the entrances of the wharf sheds, that May expressed surprise.

"Heather?" May gasped. "What are you doing here?"

The Irish girl's recognizable face, freckles and smile shone from under the worn brim of the cap.

"I'm with my father and uncle. See?"

May and Dewey followed Heather's gesture to a banner that hung over the closest entranceway of a shed that said, "Take Your Daughter To Work Day," and under that, in smaller print, "Sponsored by the Department of Child Labor."

"But, why are _you_ here?" the girl asked May back.

The two black teens walked over to Heather while May explained, "To tell the truth? We're trying to get on board that ship you're loading. Could you help us out?"

All three children turned to the sound of another man approaching them. A big fellow in patched work clothes, with a mane of rudish hair that his bowler had trouble containing, sauntered up to them.

"Heather," the man asked her in a deep brough. "Who are these people? Do ye know 'em?"

"Dad," his daughter said while gesturing to May. "This is May. She's the one who saved me from those hooligans the other day. They want to know if you and Uncle can help get her and her friend on that ship?"

The man looked May up and down appraisingly. "So it was _you_ , was it? Well, lass, ya made a boon friend of Sean McDonald this day, but why do ya want to do such a daft thing? Haven't ya any money?"

"No, sir. And I don't think it would have mattered anyway," May told him solemnly. "My family's been kidnapped, sir, and we have to get to Virginia to save them. Please, sir."

The longshoreman mulled it over. There was danger to be had on all sides for this. Danger for the two of them if they should get caught. Danger for his and several men's jobs, should _they_ get caught. But family was worth the risk. The journey of immigrants like him was proof of that.

"Hmm. Then I suppose you'll be needin' to be on this here ship, then," he decided finally.

May had to ask just to be sure she heard correctly. "You'll help us?"

"Aye, lass, we will," he sighed apprehensively. "It's a good thing ya ran into us when ya did. This ship'll be shoving' off in a few minutes. We'll get ye up with the last load, but ye better hurry."

"Yes, sir! Come on, Dewey!"

The two were led to a large pallet, where a squat pyramid of crates sat in the center of an open cargo net. Someone had thrown Heather a weather-beaten tarp from the top of an old crate and she handed it to Dewey.

Turning to the man who tossed the covering to her, Heather said to him, "Thanks, Uncle Ronald."

The clown, Ronald McDonald, standing by the old crate, gave his niece an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

"Dad wants ya both to get to the top of the stack, and then to put this tarp over ya, to hide, until yur in the ship's hold," she told them.

May grasped Heather's gloved hands in gratitude. "I know we haven't known each other long, Heather, but I want you to know that we really appreciate this. Even if we some how don't make it, thank you."

"No need to apologize. I'd probably screw up the courage to do the same, if my clan was in trouble. I just hope yurs'll be alright out there."

"Thanks," May said with a sigh, before taking a look up the side of the massive vessel. It was going to get worse before it ever got better. "You'd think living in a free state, we wouldn't have to go through all of this crap. I thought we were citizens, too."

"Not to them," Heather said to May with a knowing smile. "Yur _black._ But that's okay. Some folks just can't handle that."

With an understanding chuckle, May gave Heather a hug.

"Godspeed to ya, May," Heather said into May's shoulder.

"God bless you, Heather. You and your folks."

May quickly broke from the embrace and clumsily began ascending the boxes, silently hoping not to get splinters, and thrilling at the coming prospect of travel, at last.

Eventually she reached the top and marveled on the view it gave. From this vantage point, she could see over the maze of the wharf's apron over to the nearly vacant passenger area. Heather's father was right, it was just about time to leave, and May gave a shiver of anticipation.

Dewey, pulling up the tarpaulin, and climbing awkwardly because of it, arrived a few moments later. He sat beside May and draped the cumbersome covering over them, leaving their faces uncovered so they could take their last looks at Quahog, Rhode Island.

The booming steam whistle of the _Plymouth_ heralded the slow cinching of the cargo net up around the crates and their hidden cargo.

May spared a few moments to slip her hand out from under the tarp to wave back to a frantically waving Heather. As soon as she felt the mountain of boxes shudder and lift into the air, May quickly slipped her arm back in and wrapped both arms around Dewey's, squeezing it for protection. Although the trip up would be typically slow and steady, her heart hammered as though she were on a runaway cart.

Through the opening of their tarp shroud and the wide spacing in the net's mesh, May could see the vista of fledgling urban sprawl, and endless, blue river grow wider and more unbelievable with every yard they rose.

She didn't dare look down from the boxes. She just continued to clutch Dewey and look ahead, exploring the landscape that was descending and flattening out with overhead detail as fast as they escalated.

May decided to look up, and saw the firmament gradually rushing to meet her. Its openness captivated her like nothing else. It was such a simple, yet unreal experience, that she feared if she thought too hard on it, it would turn out to be a dream, and anchor her back to earth once again.

A breeze caused the net to sway slightly, and the two teens were so exhilarated by the freedom and the terror, that they hardly knew that they were holding each other for dear life. They took a spare moment from the spectacle to glance at each other and saw that they both were grinning and holding their breath, for dear life was exactly what they were holding onto at that moment. Dangerous, delicious life.

The crane hoisted the cargo to its zenith before it began its careful swing over the maw of the steamer's hold. The sounds of crewmen and other longshoremen could be heard from below and the two stowaways huddled closer to make themselves as unobtrusive as possible. Hopefully, the workers would have been so busy finishing up the loading, that they wouldn't notice a tarp-covered lump on the stack of crates.

With the guidance of the stevedores, the cargo sank into the darkness of the ship safely and without incident. Afterwards, the hatches were closed and sealed, and no one had even suspected that two souls had the audacity to slip on board.


	5. 5

"Shh," Dewey ordered May as they quietly threaded their way from the pillars of crates and fields of barrels to reach the hatch that led from the main hold to the rest of the ship's interior. In their wake, two members of the _Plymouth's_ crew lay on the cold steel floor, heavily stunned.

"How did you know that your book would knock out those two?" he asked as they left the hold and entered a narrow passageway.

"I _didn't_ ," May answer with a hint of defensiveness, holding her manuscript securely. "It fell out of my hand when we got off the crates. I guess those two were just curious. Where to, now?"

Ignorance of the ship's layout stymied them, but staying where they were was risky. They had to move, even if just to scout around. Dewey decided to lead May down the passage until it turned and opened out onto a somewhat wider hall, illuminated by portholes on the side.

"We'll stay in the hold if we have to, cher," he whispered to her. "But I'm hopin' we'll find someplace better for the trip. Bad enough we'll be livin' like rats, without having to eat 'em, too."

Peering around its corner, he could see no one, but looking on the wall, nearby, Dewey noticed stenciling indicating that bearing down the hall would take one to the either the engine/boiler room, the staircase leading up to the main deck, or the equipment room.

Motioning May to stay where she was, Dewey trotted quietly up the hall.

After a few yards, he past the alcove that sheltered the stairs leading to the upper deck. He stopped to listen for descending footfalls, and miraculously heard none.

Going further up the hall, he reached another turn-off. This time leading to a similar narrow passageway to the one they both entered from the hold. Along its length, it sported two reinforced hatches across from each other, at the halfway point.

Running back to the stair alcove, which he felt was the halfway point of the corridor he was already on, he hissed loudly down the hall for May.

May leaned out cautiously and saw Dewey gesturing rapidly for her to run to where he was. She quickly complied.

As soon as she was a few yards from him, Dewey fearfully tensed. Regulation-style shoes could be heard clanging down the metal stairwell, and as she came closer, the footsteps rang louder.

May didn't need to hear Dewey's warnings about ship's personnel approaching; she could see it in his widening eyes.

As soon as she reached him, Dewey grabbed her by the arm and frantically led her away from the alcove, just as legs marched down to the last landing in the staircase.

They flew around the corner up ahead, just as a steward reached the corridor, stopped to take his bearings, and then preceded to walk in the teens' general direction.

Dewey and May scrambled to the hatches, knowing that their very running was probably giving them away. Both doors gave the possibility of hope to them, if they could open them.

May turned and read the words "Boiler Room," stenciled on one side of the hall, then began struggling with the hatch's wheel to open it, which refused to turn and was apparently locked, for whatever reason, by the engineers from the inside.

Dewey attacked the hatch wheel of the chamber stenciled as the "Equipment Room." With a squeak, it opened, and Dewey reached over and pulled May into the large, dark room, closing the hatch moments before the steward rounded the corner on the far end of the corridor and walked down it.

The two teens huddled in the dark, forcing their bodies not to make the slightest noise. Their ears focused on the doorway, praying that the footsteps wouldn't stop there and herald the discovery that would finish the trip before it even started.

The closer the sound came, the higher the stowaways' fear rose, until it match in perfect synchronization with the sound landing right outside the doorway.

Then it began to fall away, receding as their corresponding terror began to, until the only thing they could hear was the ambient noise of the massive engines in the next chamber across from them, and a curious mix of sounds in the room they were in. A strange fusion of machinery, the slight shuffling of moving bodies…and a deep, heavy inhalation.

The room looked to be roughly half the length of the hold, but felt just as stuffy. Before them was open, utilitarian space that served as a makeshift lounge, sporting four long, metal tables and chairs of various cast-off styles.

Everywhere they stepped, they could feel the many, many rivets and welded seams that held the iron floor plates securely. The walls were dark and just as sturdily held together, laced with conduits, pipes, and valves, like the veins and arteries of some steel beast's innards, some of them releasing the occasional pent-up steam burst, obscuring the room in places.

"Stay frosty," Dewey told her. "We don't know who's here."

May stayed close to his side, watching their collective backs. "Affirmative."

The throaty noise in question was coming from the farthest end of the wide room, which was noticeably brighter that everywhere else.

Illumination proved to be better there, and the two of them could see that it was coming softly from a second, longer chamber up ahead, set apart from the improvised lounge by a wide bulkhead archway, that was flanked on either side by a closed door. A stylized man and woman were painted on each door, respectively, with a short, serpentine line coming from one of the ankles.

Getting drawn closer to the source of the sound, May and Dewey ventured through the portal and into the brightening chamber. Stopping, they had to blink back the painful sunlight that came in through two large portholes in the wall at the room's far end.

As their eyes started to adjust, they could make out something up front. Below the two portholes was a table, or something that resembled a table until one looked more closely. On its surface were small colored bulbs, a wide panel of tiny switches with small corresponding nameplates next to each, an ornately painted clock face, and a strangely cut keyhole by its side.

Sitting high between the two windows, was something resembling a curve-backed, metallic, open framed chair with pedals, that looked too tall to seat a person, and was folded up against the wall by what looked to be a series of multi-jointed mechanical arms.

May was about to take another step towards the chair and table, when some clear liquid fell from the shadowy heights of the ceiling and landed on her shoulder. A sound, not unlike a staccato breathing was heard, just then, and it put them on edge.

More clear liquid trickled on her shoulder again, and when enough droplets had hit her with sufficient impact and frequency that she finally noticed, May decided to see what it was so she could avoid it. She took a curious look up, and alerted Dewey with an uncontrolled gasp.

Barely touched by the sunlight, in the gloom of the ceiling, about fifteen feet above their heads, stretching from the archway entrance to the porthole wall, were two great steel cylinders on either side of the room.

Both were ringed in twenty places with rotating flanges attached to bronze, multi-jointed arms, resembling the biomechanical limbs of an immense insect. Hoses, exposed gear work and thin pistons hung almost haphazardly among the folded arms, and wisps of escaping steam made the whole apparatus even more difficult to discern visually.

But it wasn't the partially obscure machinery above that made the couple freeze in incredulity. It was what they saw being held in those steely arms.

People. Sleeping.

At the end of each folded arm was a type of cradle, where black men, women and children, in liveried crew uniforms, were all resting. Each cradle was supported from its heavily hinged bottom in a locked position of 15 degrees forward.

The cradles consisted of an open frame style, like the porthole chair, but was crudely structured ergonomically to support a person as though he or she were lying face down on a padded and hinged, humanoid framework.

One of two young boys sleeping directly above May had his mouth open, slack-jawed, and drool was drizzling out from within. With a groan of exasperation, she ran out from under the torrent and began to look for a cloth for her dampened shoulder.

Turning back to go look in the lounge, May stopped dead in her tracks. Dewey, who had been staring at the snoring mass of humans above, didn't notice May's quiet distress until he glanced over at her still form facing the way back.

When he looked over at what she saw, he tensed in anxiety and action, as well.

Three people stood by the archway, two men and a woman, looking at the two of them, not in alarm, but in anticipation. As though they were waiting for the two of them to arrive. If it had anything to do with the people being hung up in the ceiling, May and Dewey thought, it might have been better to be caught by the white crewers.

The woman with the salt-and-pepper hair, a housekeeper, from the look of her uniform, pointed over to May, good-naturedly, and said, "I see Leaky Faucet's got you, huh?"

May stood confused. The woman clarified by pointing at her own shoulder.

"He drools in his sleep. Sorry about that. If we didn't mop up the puddles he leaves behind, I'd swear he'd rust a hole in the ship."

Dewey and May still stood in place, unsure of what to do.

One of the men, far oldest of the three, stepped from the threshold, amiably, and reached over to them, shaking the teenagers' slack hands.

"Forgive my manners. My name is Governor. I'm the supervisor in charge of Ebotics Operations here on board," he told them. He then gestured back over to his two compatriots. "The stout fellow in the work apron is Smokestack, engineer class, and you've met the lovely Lens, domestic class, just now."

"What?" was all the teens could manage before they turned to the sound of a three-ring signal being played from the innards of the strange table nearby.

That tintinnabulation heralded a new sound to ominously come groaning from up in the ceiling. With a focused blast of steam from a distant pressure valve, the people began to stir in their cradles with yawns, and, due to their unique orientation, stiff stretches. The mechanized arms shuddered with power and creaked into motion, slowly unfolding and swinging their lengths out and onto the floor in smooth, time-tested fashion.

As the cradles descended, May and Dewey could see that they were set in a staggered configuration, with one cradle from one side of the room, swinging down to rest beside one from the other, with enough space in between both of them for the occupants to dismount the cradles without bumping into one another.

A young woman limbered up next to her cradle and then walked over to May and Dewey once she saw them.

"Hey, Governor, who are these two?" she asked him. She nodded curtly to May. "She doesn't look like much of a showroom model to me." May huffed in response.

A boy, one of the two that hung previously, saw the wet spot on May's shoulder and turned to the other.

"Brother, you've got to learn to sleep with your mouth closed. You just tagged another one."

"Sorry, Stopgap."

A man, a head taller than Dewey, walked over and gave Dewey a friendly, yet stinging slap on the back, and asked him, "Are you the new maintenance units the captain requested?"

Again, "What?" was the best Dewey could manage, after getting feeling back to his dorsal region.

Governor sauntered over to his charges, waving his hands to quell the consternation and questions.

"I know what you're all thinking. And _yes_ , they don't look like much, but I'm sure Requisitions had to send over what was available. After all, none of us are really showroom models anymore, are we? But we'll do alright."

"What's going on here?" May asked. All around her, she could hear music. Something that sounded like a driving shanty, or a drinking song, played in stirringly low keys.

Governor turned to her with a broad, yet sad grin, saying to her, "Why, you're our new replacements! Welcome to the Equipment Room."

**The Three Laws Of Ebotics**

(Original Song)

(Governor)

_I can see the new models are in this year,_

_It's a good thing you finally arrived,_

_Our last maintenance drones,_

_Were all seven year olds,_

_And only these two have survived  
_

 

_But before you're assigned your new function here,_

_And the programming you need to know,_

_The Powers That Be,_

_Have created for thee,_

_Three Laws Of Ebotics, that goes...  
_

 

Chorus:

(The Crew)

_A black man must not harm a white man,_

_A black man is pressed to obey,_

_If harm should advance, he's given the chance,_

_To bargain, or just run away  
_

 

(Female Crew Members to May)

_The Three Laws apply to us women, too,_

_But God help you, if you're on your back!  
_

 

(The Crew)

_The Three Laws of Ebotics-_

 

(May and Dewey)

_And what are Ebotics?  
_

 

(The Crew)

_Machines that just happen to be Black!  
_

 

(Smokestack)

_Now the ship that you're on is the pride of the fleet,_

_But that's due to the work of the crews,_

_Yet, no one would dream,_

_That we haggard machines,_

_Would be given the brunt of abuse_

 

(Lens)

_There are plenty of models to choose from,_

_Load lifters to cute worker bees,_

_God built us to last,_

_So we're all unsurpassed,_

_With out built-in lifetime guarantees  
_

 

Chorus:

(The Crew)

_Down here, we do things a bit differently,_

_Technology governs our lives,_

_Forget getting laid,_

_We all Plug and Play,_

_To say, "See ya", we say, "End of Line…"  
_

 

_At the end of the day, they just pack us away,_

_They load us in storage, on racks,  
_

_It's the life of a droid that we long to avoid,_

_To take our humanity back  
_

 

Bridge:

(Governor)

_Now, as you're all new here, we'll all get acquainted,_

_We're bees in a tight, little hive,_

_But watch out for Mary, the virus she carries,_

_Could wipe out a fella's hard drive!  
_

 

_As you see, things are very much different now,_

_We are no longer looked on as beasts,  
_

 

(Lens)

_It's ironic we're seen as machinery now,_

_We're no longer purchased, we're leased!  
_

 

(The Crew)

_You may not be the droids that we're looking for,_

_And no serial numbers' displayed,_

_But before you can sleep, you must both earn your keep,_

_And the Three Laws, they must be obeyed  
_

 

_If you're white and born here, you're American,_

_But for us, we're American made!  
_

_Curse this cruel and moronic,_

_Degrading, despotic,_

_Evil,_

_And blatantly unpatriotic,_

_Ghastly and fiendish,_

_And not for the squeamish,_

_Horrible, wicked,_

_And frankly, psychotic,_

 

_Laws to an early grave!  
_

 

May and Dewey stood there, absorbing the dire situation that befell these poor souls, and wondering what they might have to do as a consequence to survive their stowing away.

"Harsh," they said in dismayed unison.

* * *

 

With a booming blow of the ship's steam whistle, the new passengers lined the railings on the main deck, waving with all their enthusiasm, while family and friends on the dock below, reciprocated, cheering.

Deep in the Equipment Room, May heard the whistle call, as well. The sleeping cradles had long since retracted, giving May and clear view of the room once again.

Looking around, she saw the black crewers, the so-called Ebots, straightening their uniforms, preening themselves, or chatting amongst their fellows while preparing their minds for the coming work shift. All of which meant nothing to her at that moment. Her focus was on the portholes.

Eyeballing it from where she stood in the room, she guessed correctly that she just wasn't tall enough to see out of them, so she would have to improvise while time was available.

She skipped into the lounge, which was being occupied by Dewey and other workers who wanted to get off their feet. Scanning the dim room, she found an unused chair. Running over, she took it and rushed back into the sleeping area.

Already, May could hear the boiler room next door growl and could feel the ship shudder with motion through the floor. _Plymouth_ was about to cast off, and May wanted to see it happen, wanted to see what traveling in a ship looked like from the passenger's point of view.

She placed the seat underneath one of the windows and quickly stood on it. Then she swung open the porthole and breathed deep the briny, cleaner air. With the extra height afforded her now, May could clearly watch, and enjoy, her world slowly moving away.

With the moorings released and officers clad in gleaming white calling out orders to get under way, the _Plymouth's_ boilers roared hungrily for its coal, belching out its satisfaction through her colossal chimneys, and turning the sky above the ship dim with gray-black storm clouds of smoke.

Its huge side paddles ponderously began to push and churn into the river, slowly surging the vessel, like a great, living thing, out and away from the jutting pier. A long blast from her whistle claimed the right of the way. Cautiously, she glided her way through the shipping that crowds the harbor proper, drops her pilot and is soon on her way towards the colder, deeper waters of the Narragansett and beyond.

May marveled at the city's distance growing greater and greater with every passing minute of departure. As much as Quahog was familiar to her, watching it from the river on her way from it, gave the city a newness she never considered, like looking at an old picture from a new angle.

Every time she saw a landmark, she thought of everything she was leaving behind. Her home, her few school friends, the neighborhood with its wild and wooly, yet nautical charm, the steam buses that she stole rides from, and even the city's old New England charm and beauty that shone whenever the sun hit it just right, began to pull on her heart a little.

All of those things were the price she had to pay, not just to set out in search of her family, but also to set out onto the world. Fear of failure and anticipation to meet the challenge made her drunk with the heady brew of coming maturity.

And as the river became more vast, and the city's humble skyline became thinner and more indistinct, her stomach stirred, as she realized that she had passed the point of no-return, and that she began to feel something sloughing away from her, on the inside.

As the sun and the seagulls raced low across the horizon with the _Plymouth,_ and her spirit flew to keep pace with them, something was dying inside of May Griffin, and with an adventurous grin, she knew exactly what it was. Her old self.

_She was leaving home.  
_

* * *

Lois could feel the rough swaying of the train as her consciousness bubbled up from the depths of a light, ether-induced sleep.

As she slowly opened her eyes into an uncomprehending stare, she took a look at the car's interior. It was tastefully appointed with curtains, polished wood, brass and glass. Delicate gaslight lamps adorned the walls and the bench she sat upon was comfortably upholstered.

Up ahead, the forward section of the car was filled with seated passengers, hardly noticing Lois and contending to their own affairs. Midway and to the rear of the car, it was empty. Save for a lone woman reading her newspaper in the far rear corner of the other side of the car, she was alone.

All of which meant that she was where her family _wasn't._

Lois tensed up to make a fast getaway and make her way up and down the length of the train to find them, when she noticed the newest accoutrement to grace the car she was in, a pair of shackles connecting her to the windowed wall that the bench was connected to.

Experimentally, she pulled at the chains, and the plate that they ran through held. So, she tugged harder, the chains now making a racket against the wooden wall.

Lois began to scheme about trying to work the plate loose by its weakest anchoring point, the wood, when a tall, mustachioed man walked into the car from further in back of the train, and sat in the bench across from her with an easy grace.

"It'll take a long time to get through those chains, cher," The Hunter said. "especially with all that noise you're makin'."

"Where is my family? Where are they?" Lois asked.

"Uppermost on your mind, I'd suspect."

"Just tell me where they are, already. I want to see them."

"Well, if you must know, I put them way back there in the prison car. They _would_ have been ridin' in the baggage car, but this isn't a regular outing for the likes of them, now is it?" The Hunter drawled.

Lois grabbed and tugged nervously at her bonds in an attempt to fight her anxiety. Then a nagging thought hit her.

"Wait. If they're there, then why am I _here_? I told you I wanted to be with Nate and my kids. Wherever they go, _I_ go."

The Hunter chuckled at that. "Cher, I have no doubt that you'd follow that mongrel family of yours to _Hell_ and back, but my client might not appreciate that, seeing that he's gone through all this trouble to bring you back, and all."

"Your _client_ ," Lois hissed at him. "My father. I couldn't give a damn what he'd appreciate or not."

"Ahh, but I _do_ , cher. I told you before that your father is paying me a king's ransom to bring all of you home, and I aims to deliver on that contract. But I give you my word as a southern gentleman that neither you or those "people" back there will be harmed."

"Yeah, right."

"It's true, cher," he said genuinely. "Besides, how would it look if the son-in-law couldn't take care of the father-in-law's daughter, huh?"

Lois felt like she missed something important just then, and so asked, "What?"

The Hunter puffed up with no small amount of pride in his confession.

"That's right, cher! I'm-a fixin' to marry you when this job's done. With the money I'm gonna be paid with, I can retire in high style, and I want you there with me when I do, Lois."

Lois gave him an incredulous look that bordered on pity. "You do know I'm already married, don't you, you cornpone? What are you? Crazy?"

The Hunter ignored the insult breezily. "See? That's why I want to marry you, Lois. You got the kind of sauce I've been lookin' for all my life, girl. Besides, you know as well as I do that no court in the land's gonna honor that marriage. In fact, how you managed to stay out of jail by now is nothing short of mystifying."

She could see that there was no getting through to him, and ultimately, no need.

"I'm not marrying you," she said with quiet finality.

"Well, I don see why not," he said nonchalantly. "It's not like there isn't gonna be a vacancy when your family winds up as tree ornaments. So now would be a very good time to start thinking about tradin' up."

"It won't be with you, that's for _damn_ sure. Now let me see my family!"

The Hunter decided to counter her demand by looking intolerably smug instead. "I don't think so. You've made one mistake already, marrying that _thing_ back there, why go on makin' another one?"

Lois stayed silent, not answering, so as not to give her kidnapper the satisfaction of a response.

"Come with _me_ , girl. I'll treat you right," the man pressed with a sly smile. "I know it sounds crazy, but I _know_ you. Ever since I saw you in that store, I knew what was wrong in your heart. You miss those sweet times when you had more money than you knew what to do with."

The worried flicker of a discovered secret flashed from Lois' eyes to him, and that sly smile grew slowly.

"Oh, yes, darlin'. Daddy told me _all_ about you. And with money, comes freedom. Everybody knows that, and I can give that to you, Lois. I can give it all to you. Just say yes, cher. Just say yes."

Lois never knew why she hesitated when she did. It should have been an automatic response, as immediate and easy as breathing, to just say no to all that he offered. But she found herself, for the briefest moment… _thinking_ about it.

And knowing that she spent that eternity even considering it brought a deeper shame to her than turning on her family outright. She was showing The Hunter something far more than her heart in her indecision; she was showing him her weakness. And more than anything in that train, _that_ was what he truly focused on now.

"I can't," she said evenly, and then knew she failed, from her very choice of words. "I mean, I _won't_!"

The Hunter gave her a slightly crooked smile. The prey had bared her throat to him. All that was left to do now was wait for the perfect moment to strike home. _At home_.

"Alright," he said slowly, more than satisfied, psychologically. "We'll just table this discussion for another time, then?"

He stood up from the bench and stretched before saying to her, "I love your fire, cher, and I know you'll come around, because now I know that you care about something even more than me or your family. Your _image_. How other folks see you."

Lois again stiffened into silence. She gave too much away as it was.

"Right now, they see you as a criminal," he said matter-of-factly. "And if things were different, I might've come up here to drag _your_ high-tone ass down south, instead of your family. But it's not too late to save yourself."

He started to walk away towards the rear of the train, pulling the brim of his wide hat over his spectacled eyes for mysterious effect.

"For a criminal, you sure aren't thinking like one," he said before he left the car. "Cut 'em loose, ya hear?"

"Kiss my ass, ya hear?" Lois said under her breath when he was gone.

Lois turned her head to the sound of soft chuckling just to the rear of her. The woman who had been reading her paper had lowered it to laugh lightly, showing her high, feathered hat and pale, painted face.

"I don't think he heard you, dear, but well said," she said to her.

"Thanks."

"Lillian Daniels," the woman introduced herself. "Madam of the Hot Seat Hostelry of New York. I'd shake your hand but I don't know which one is shackled. Sorry. "

Lois was a little surprised to see another whorehouse madam in her life. Apart from that Glenda Quagmire back home, what were the odds? Still, courtesy was important, so she reciprocated the introduction.

"Oh, uh, that's okay. Uh, Lois Griffin, guilty of miscegenation, I guess."

Lillian flashed a sudden grin. "Ha! Hardly a crime in _my_ profession. I've seen as many freemen enjoy my girls, as, so-called respectable white men, but only white men could be so two-faced about it, and the more "respectable" the man, the more of a hypocrite he is."

Lillian struck Lois as a breath of fresh air after her dealings with The Hunter. She seemed strangely captivating, despite having known her all of a few minutes. Opinionated, cavalier and cocky, they were same qualities Lois gravitated towards, but never seen so openly displayed.

"I suppose so."

"Hey, I heard what was going on between you two. As a woman, I'm sorry you're in this mess. You took a big chance marrying a black man," Lillian told her. "One thing they can't say is that you married him for _money_."

That sparked sharp laughter from the madam that buoyed Lois' sprits so much that she belly-laughed along with her. It was so needed and it all true.

"Yeah, that's true," Lois managed to say, after wiping a tear away. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that it turned out this way, but, y'know, it doesn't bother me all that much, as long as I can share the trouble with my family. I don't want my skin color to be the thing that protects me, while it punishes others."

"I totally agree, Lois, but your skin isn't the only factor that keeps you from the ones you love."

"Really? What else is there?"

"The fact that you're a woman. It scares the hell out of men. Especially those in power. They see us and they see another thing that's not like them that they can control. I've never seen such a god complex."

"What do you mean?"

"God is above everything, right? Well, insecure men with power _equate_ that power with _being_ God. They rule the world, not as wise, democratic stewards, but as paranoid, greedy, misogynistic xenophobes. Anything not _exactly_ like them, must be intimidated, subjugated and controlled. Think about it. Blacks, Indians, and other non-whites don't look or behave as they do, so, to them, they must be subjugated. Women, too."

"That's so true!" Lois said.

"We're all in the same boat," Lillian continued. "Captained by the same tyrants. Where to go, how to dress, who to marry, how to spend one's free time, how much to earn, and what to do. Even our bodies are subject only to _their_ scrutiny and decisions. We're as much slaves to our white masters as the blacks are, only our collars are prettier."

Lois idly thought about entertaining the notion of playing devil's advocate just for the sake of argument, but living a lifetime with her parents made everything Lillian said stand crystal clear in her mind, both in terms of her mother as well as her father.

"You're right. But what can you do?"

"You can be true to yourself. You must be brave for your family, Miss Griffin."

Lois hesitated to ask what came next, but then realized that Lillian would have probably insisted that she do so, anyway.

"Do people know…what it is you do?"

Lillian gave a bravely grim smile. "They do, indeed. And so-called respectable people do look down on me, but I'm a happy person, because I'm my own woman. I make more money than those hypocrites who turn their noses at me do. Hell, most of their husbands are the ones who pay my girls the most, so it doesn't bother me."

"I certainly was my own woman when I took a chance to be with Nate," Lois said to herself thoughtfully.

"I would think so."

"Then I have to stay true to that. God, I would have been so miserable if I didn't go with my heart on that. I would have been such a coward. I can't let my father, or this man he sent, scare me into regret. I did what I did, and I'm glad I did it." Lois said, more to reaffirm her own convictions, than as simple declaration.

"You're a good woman, Lois Griffin," Lillian said with sincerity. "Don't be _Man's_ Woman. Be your own."

Lois sighed. She didn't know who this woman was, but talking to her took such a huge weight off her mind. She hoped that if, by some miracle, things did somehow work out, she could count her as a freethinking, long-term friend.

"Thanks, Lillian. You really gave me a lot to think about."

"Don't mention it, Lois. You wanna go someplace and make out?"

" _What?"_

"What?"

* * *

 

One of the two doors that flanked the sides of the archway opened, and May stepped out of the women's bathroom in her new clothes, a blue and white housekeeper's uniform dress and matching cap.

As she tugged at the clothes lightly and self-consciously checked the fit once more, she heard the men's bathroom door squeak open on the other side, and saw Dewey walk out with some misgivings in his expression concerning the white tunic and trouser combo that comprised his laundry man's uniform.

Governor came over and looked Dewey over. "I'm sorry about the uniform, young fellow. Since neither of you were rated for ship's maintenance, the only other positions that were open were housekeeper and laundry. I hope you don't mind."

"It's alright, Governor," May told him. She took an idle glance over to the sleeping chamber, to the portholes, which were now dark with night. She couldn't imagine where on the seas they were now, but it was safe to say that Quahog was now a distant land, its safety and familiarity, an illusion to her now, trailing away from her, like thin smoke.

"Now," Governor said. "Because you're both new here, we won't put you to work until tomorrow, so you'll have time to learn about how we sleep here."

He led the assembly back to the sleeping area and then tottered further up the room, until he stopped in front of the singular table below the portholes.

He pulled out a thin chain from his tunic that held a key on its end, and inserted it into the keyhole that was built into the table.

With a quick turn, the table became animate with bulbs flashing colors and purposeful strobes.

"This is my station," he told May and Dewey. "From here, I control the whole room. I can assign workers their duties, operate the cradle racks, and set waking times for everybody. Like so."

He flicked a large switch and then grabbed at an equally large lever and pulled. With their customary song of groaning, unfamiliar, steampunk technology, mechanical arms smoothly unfolded from their heights and laid their individual cradles to the iron floor.

May tiptoed over to the weird contraption. She wondered how anyone could possibly sleep comfortably in something that looked like a fancy version of a full-body torture device. She was already missing her bedroom.

"Why do you all sleep like this? Isn't it uncomfortable?" May asked the supervisor.

"Well, as the captain once told us, it was, and I quote, to maximize space in the ship so that the ship, as a whole, would operate more efficiently, unquote. And as for comfort, well, all I can say is, at least you won't fall out. It's like sleeping in the palm of a giant hand."

Governor then flicked a switch that was set apart from the others on the tabletop, and a hum could be heard nearby. The spindly, metal chair that was held against the wall between the two portholes, jerked into motion and opened before him like a supplicant.

With practiced, gingerly movements, Governor sat upon his command chair, as his charges began seating themselves into the forward positions of their cradles.

"Watch how they get in, you two," he instructed the teens, as he settled in more comfortably. "So you'll know how to, next time."

May turned to watch a co-worker as he reached over and grabbed the entry handles on either side of the framework, swung his leg over the cradle and stepped into the rigid stirrups. It looked not unlike getting on a bicycle.

Directly underneath him was the framework proper, a strategically bowed and padded structure that he laid his body into, settling his limbs into the padded limb molds, and his head and neck onto the equally padded and circular cranial support rig. From his body's orientation, he looked like he was lying face down on the brassy skeleton of a massage table.

It looked to May as though he was in danger of falling forward, but the cradle's huge, bulbous hinge at the base, connecting it to the pistoned arm, kept the bed at its customary fifteen-degree angle.

"Hop in," the man said, giving May a twitch of a glance, due to the limited mobility of the cranial rig. "It's not too bad."

May tentatively walked over to her rig and was about to make that awkward first attempt, when she spotted three teenaged girls, identical triplets, flanking Dewey while he made _his_ attempt.

"Do you need any help getting _comfortable_?" the first girl, One, volunteered.

"We know how to adjust it, so you can get into a better… _position_ ," drawled Two, the second.

"Sometimes the cradle gets a little loose, so, let us know, and we'll come right over and…tighten your nuts," Three, the third girl offered.

May stepped in between the three man-eaters before Dewey became their next midnight snack.

"Okay, girls. _I'll_ take it from here," she told them while waving them off like the annoyances they were. "Last thing he needs is for you three to start showing him the Singapore features."

With sucking teeth and grumbles, the three sisters departed, while May gave Dewey a lopsided smile.

"Aren't you a little too old to be tucked in?" she scoffed good-naturedly.

"Ah, cher," he said as he finally settled in correctly. "You can _never_ be too old for that. For example, my mama _always_ kissed me good night."

With his body resting forward, May gave her rebuttal to his flirt with a quick slap on his fanny that gave him a surprised jerk further forward.

"Sweet dreams," she said with a sly smile as she sashayed back to her cradle and clambered in.

Governor, having seen his fill, reached forward and turned a black knob, which in turn, flipped the digits of a crude timer until it read 07:30 AM.

"Powering down, people," he said to all of them. Then he gripped the big lever again and pushed it forward.

With an escaped _whoop!_ May tensed when she felt the rush of motion lift her and her cradle with pistoned grace, up and up, until the cradle finally stopped just below the tangle of steam pipes, hoses, gears and exposed piston rods.

As the other cradles rose into their places up above, Governor flicked another switch and the few gas lamps that illuminated the Equipment Room flickered and died. One more switch thrown, and his chair rose away from his control table, its articulated arms bringing it back to rest once more against the porthole wall, this time in a reclined angle for him.

In the dark silence of the sleeping chamber and its storage racks, a thought hit May suddenly.

"Excuse me for asking, but, what do you do if you have to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night?" she asked openly.

"Well, that all depends," a nearby woman replied.

"On what?"

"On whether you need the funnel, or the hose," a man chimed in.

Unpleasant thoughts of uncomfortable and unsanitary devices entering accessible orifices gave May a mighty pause.

"You know what, guys? Nevermind."


	6. 6

The _Plymouth_ had made her way smoothly from the mouth of the Narragansett and beyond southern New England, and entered the vast, open blue of the Atlantic.

The nautical traffic was fair and evident even without a pair of spyglasses handy. Sailboats and pickets cruised along or crossed paths with the stately steamship, sometimes earning a toot of the ship's whistle in exchange for a courteous wave.

Traveling the safer, more distant lanes afforded to them, one could see either the tell-tale trails of smoke from other steamers and freighters from the far curve of Earth's horizon, or could see their sea worthy hulls outright, as they shined white against the morning sun, their decks and unused masts festooned proudly in the breeze with flags of semaphore and their countries of origin.

The _Plymouth_ was making good time on this part of her cruise. As one of the fastest ships of the fleet, she would carve a swift line through the foamy, Atlantic chop southward until she entered Long Island Sound and berthed on time, in the Hudson River. Until then, the customers on board, who paid between five and ten dollars a head, would live in the very lap of ocean-going luxury.

The sound of an incessant ringing woke May up from a dreamless sleep. She blinked her eyes and tried to stretch, as was her habit in the morning, and found that she couldn't do it easily. The awkwardness of the cradle reminded her of where she was.

Her yawns and groans soon joined the chorus of the others as her fellow co-workers stirred into consciousness and sleepily bade one another good morning. Then they all descended.

After May disengaged herself from her dubious bed, she slowly followed the rest of the morning crew out into the lounge. Finding a spot by one of the steel tables, she pulled up a chair. She didn't know what she was supposed to do next, but every time she saw someone doing something she didn't do herself in her own morning routine, she'd copy it as a way of learning the ropes.

When she saw Dewey lurch from the sleeping area like a zombie, she called him over to where she sat and placed a chair for him to flop down upon.

"I've slept in the strangest places," Dewey groaned in his hands. "Under coaches, under bridges, even under fire, but that rattrap takes the cake."

May was intrigued suddenly by his admission of sleeping "under fire," and was about to ask how he came to be in such a predicament, when she saw Governor finally leave the chamber and bid everyone good morning.

He walked to a dim corner of the lounge, where a long length of chain extended from the dark ceiling to the floor.

Turning his head to all in the room, he asked, "Is everybody ready to power up?"

When everyone expressed their readiness, Governor pulled down on the chain three times and then hurried over to his seat.

"What's goin' on?" Dewey asked May while he rubbed the sleep from his red eyes.

"I don't know," May said as a hum. Then her eyes saw movement from above the tables. Snaking down from unseen ports high in the dark ceiling, May could see…tubes.

About twenty thin, rubbery tubes came down over the seated occupants, who all had a look of anticipation in their sleepy eyes.

A tube crept down in front of May's pensive face.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" she asked a co-worker from across the table from her, who turned out to be the old housekeeper, Lens.

"Feeding tube. Pop it in your mouth," the woman instructed, placing the end of her tube into her mouth. Then she reached up and pinched a portion of the tube in her fingers, adding, "I think it'll be bacon and eggs, this time. Have to be fast, or it'll get messy."

"What'll get mess-" May started to ask, forgetting to follow Lens' lead. A warm blast of chunky, semi-solid mass splattered across May's face, and she frantically put the tube into her mouth.

Sure enough, crumbled bits of bacon mixed with mashed scrambled eggs were passed through a tube of compressed air for her.

It was admittedly odd for her to enjoy her repast in such a coldly efficient and impersonal manner, but she decided to make the most of it. At least the problem of getting anything to eat on the trip was solved. She cocked the feeding tube to one side of her mouth to continue eating, and simply rested her head on the palm of her hand.

For the next few minutes everyone grazed on the instant breakfast like cows in a pen, and in fact, May could swear that, ever now and then, she did hear the occasional moo. But eventually, the meal was over, and the tubes began retracting without warning back into the darkness above.

"So, how was your first meal in a tube?" Lens asked May as they all gradually stood up from their table.

"Not too bad," May said. "But I have this strange feeling, like I just got back from a prom, or something."

"It'll pass," Lens told her. "Now, since you've been assigned as a housekeeper, you'll be working under me and another housekeeper named Buffer, for a while. I'll have you with me on my rounds."

"Okay, Miss Lens."

The older woman clucked a laugh. "Just Lens, honey."

Dewey, who had been sitting next to May during breakfast, had left for a moment and was now returning from where a small clutch of girls, the very three who were jockeying for him last night before May intervened, had been standing.

"Hey, cher. Those girls just called me over and told me that we had to be given new names while we're here."

May gave him a quizzical look. "What for? My _name_ is May Griffin."

"Oh, I know, honey," Lens explained. "But Governor's terrible with names, so while you and your friend are here, you'll have to have new names."

May took a moment to ponder. "Hmm, well, Mu'ad Dib is out. I don't know. What did the girls call you, Dewey?"

"Ball Bearing! Not bad, huh, cher?"

"Do tell." May said in a jealous deadpan as she began envisioning imaginative paths towards watery graves for those troublesome girls. "And what do they call _me_?"

"Something strange, cher. What does Fifth Wheel mean?"

' _Why am I not surprised,'_ she thought as she crossed her arms over her chest and glanced at the sisters in annoyance. "Cute."

May turned from Dewey and Lens to see the rest of the workers beginning to assemble near Governor, who was standing by the open front hatch. Lens left the two teens and went forward to meet with the engineer, Smokestack.

"Smokestack, Lens," Governor called out in a truncated roll call. "Axle, Lamp Light, Trip Hammer, Ball Bearing, Fifth Wheel, Mary. Ebots, let's roll out!"

As Governor left the Equipment Room, May, Dewey and the rest of his charges surged out behind him in a wave of accustomed purpose, following him down the hallway, up the staircase around the corner, and into the busy day.

* * *

 

The _Plymouth's_ main deck was filling with posh passengers taking in the late morning sea air and passing along the latest talk and gossip. Among their number strolled the _Plymouth's_ captain, his uniform as gleaming as the clouds that cruised over the Atlantic expanse.

Summoning a fair amount of pluck and encouragement from her equally well-off and non-too-worldly compatriots, a brunette woman sidled up to him and asked with a mock-conspiratorial tone and a nervous giggle, "Captain, do forgive me, but I've been meaning to ask you, do you think we'll ever run into any beastly pirates on this voyage?"

The captain puffed his chest slightly, absently stroked his handlebar moustache, and took the fluff-brained admiration in stride. It happened all the time, on every trip. Rich simps looking for something to tell their friends on the next junket or party they'd throw. Well, he'd play along. At least the girls who swooned for the latest tales of nautical adventure were easy on the eyes.

"I wouldn't worry, miss," he sniffed with practiced bravado. "The _Plymouth_ is the fastest in her fleet. No pirate ship can catch her off-guard. You can sleep well knowing _I'm_ on duty."

"Well, I wasn't too worry about sleeping," she managed to flirt. "But I'm glad you'll be there to make sure nothing bad will happen to me…when I _do_ climb into bed."

' _Hook, line, and sinker,'_ he thought. _'Time to reel 'er in.'_

"I'll be having dinner at the Captain's Table with some of the passengers tonight. I was wondering if you'd like to join me. That way I can...fill you in."

The woman covered her mouth, playing up the gesture of being both scandalized and playing coy. "Captain!"

The captain laughed off the obviously faux act coolly. "Ha, ha! I meant that I'll fill you in…with more of my exciting stories of the sea, of course _._ "

As he continued his walk and inspection of the people and the ship, his new entourage stayed close to him. With the captain and his throng moving on, other passengers remained, enjoying the company of others, or the visual adventure of the Atlantic Ocean.

A thin man in a brown suit leaned on the railing and looked out onto the robin's egg blue of the sea. He sat up a bit when the bulge in his jacket began to become noticeable.

Another man, passing by, was noticed by Brown Suit, so he gave him a disarming smile and said, "Can't wait for the fireworks."

The passer-by looked confused and asked, "There's going be a fireworks show on board?"

"The best around," said Brown Suit.

Passer-by nodded his acceptance of the fact and jovially took his leave; leaving Brown Suit to go back to his solitary, and intense, watch of the seas.

* * *

 

May pushed the humble metal cart down the mostly empty hall. Patrons were most likely still asleep in their cabins, so the first few hours of her job would probably be easy ones, with fewer rooms to clean.

She rolled the cart up to the first door and gave it a knock.

"Housekeeping," she sing-sang.

"Come in," the strangely hollow voice bade her.

Opening the door, May walked in, leaving the cart by the threshold. Taking the measure of the room, she saw nothing out of place or used, as though no one had been assigned to it yet.

The bed was immaculate and even the pillows weren't out of place, but May noticed the oddest thing propped up on one of the pillows. A doll.

It was small, it was clad in black, and it had, in May's estimation, the weirdest face for a doll. A chalk-white visage crowned with a diminishing mane of black hair. Crimson pinstripes spiraled as a blush on its cheeks, and matched the color of its painted lips.

But what unnerved her most were the eyes, staring out of the black pits of its eyeholes, burning red, like embers.

That was all she saw as far as occupancy was concerned. Yet, she heard a man's voice tell her to come in.

' _Ah,"_ she thought. _'The doll. The hidden speaker.'_

"I guess you must be one of those ventriloquism acts I've been hearing about," she spoke up in conversation. "I didn't know the ship had a vaudeville show."

Silence was the only reply. She shrugged and became mindful of the time. Back to work.

She got as far as the dresser near the doorway before she barely felt the lightweight snag of a tripwire against the toes of her shoe.

From the corner of her eye came strange movements from the wall opposite her. She had time to dodge it all just once.

Spears, axes, and knives, propelled by some hidden mechanism, sprang from the far wall. May twisted her body in a panicked dance for survival, as weapon after weapon buried itself in the wall where a limb had only _just_ been.

Panting hard, her body flush with adrenaline, May thought the worst was over, until she craned her head away, at the very last second, from the lethal, short-range blast of a hidden shotgun.

"I'll come back later," she shakily announced, thanking God for her frantic reflexes.

May went to another door, hoping for a much saner encounter, and knocked softly. The knocking pushed the already unlocked door open.

"Housekeeping," May said as she peered inside. Then she stopped in her tracks because she found herself looking into the depths of an unexpected abattoir.

Rich, arterial, human blood covered the walls and furniture. Judging from the fact that the blood hadn't browned yet, it meant that whatever horrors had happened here were done rather recently.

On the disheveled bed was the wrecked, shirtless corpse of a man, sporting the expression on his rigor-frozen face that he died in utter surprise.

Digging into the small of his back, incredibly, sat a Predator, who turned his ponderous, armored head to regard May's entrance with as much alarm as watching a fly buzzing in her place.

With a practiced yank, the alien hunter cleanly pulled the man's bloody spinal cord and skull free from the body, filling the air with a wet, rending sound and painting the Predator's armor and a nearby wall with gore and cerebrospinal fluid.

The Predator simply croaked, amidst the clicks of his native language, the word, "Housekeeping."

May, looking on with a mask of shock, said nothing, and backed out as quietly and as non-threateningly as she could.

She pushed her cart up to the next door and raised her fist to knock, wondering if this was actually the norm, and if so, how did Lens and the other housekeepers deal with it.

Before her hand touched the door, however, it opened quietly on its own accord, allowing a heavy, pink fog to flow out from the room and into the hall.

From where she stood, May's body was bathed in the pink, ethereal light of the cabin's interior, but she couldn't move. She wasn't sure how to proceed based on the distant, crystalline pyramid and the otherworldly vista she was seeing, or the unseen, celestial chorale she was hearing.

Without fanfare, an unseen force abruptly snatched her up like a toy and drew her into the room; the door slamming shut a second later.

If there was any other soul in the hallway witnessing May's sudden introduction into the mysterious cabin, he or she might have heard an ancient, raspy voice pose the following question to her.

" _Are you a god?"_

"Uh, no, I'm your housekeeper."

May's body flew through the closed door with such force that it shattered outward. She slammed into her cart, driving it to its side, allowing May to bounce off of _it_ and then roll, head over heels, into the unyielding door of a cabin on the other side of the hall.

She dazedly blinked back the spots from her eyes and slowly sat up. Her clothes were singed from a single blast of eldritch energy, and thatched with wooden fragments of door, which were held in place by a generous coating of sticky ectoplasm.

"Great," she groused woozily. "I just _got_ this uniform."

Then she keeled over and blacked out.

* * *

 

The sunset on the horizon cast a subtle glow of orange over the whole of the ocean and everything that sailed its surface, and a good eye could pick out the first faint stars in the dusky sky as the _Plymouth_ continued her course due south to New York.

Her shift over, May walked through the corridors of the lower decks, looking for the laundry room and trying to remember the directions she was given to get there.

Eventually she came to a white door with "Laundry Room" stenciled on its surface. A laundress exited and May managed to ask her if Dewey was there before the woman disappeared down the hall.

"Hold on," she said. She leaned back into the room and asked loudly, "Is Dewey in here? What?" She turned back to May and asked her, "What's his machine name?"

"Oh, this is ridiculous," May grumbled as she remembered what the girls called him.

"Ball Bearing," she answered with an impatient sigh and an air of distaste.

"Ball Bearing!" the woman called out into the room.

"Yeah?" Dewey's voice came from deep within.

"Someone wants to see you."

Dewey's tired eyes lit upon seeing May by the doorway. He quickly untied his apron and threw in a corner and with an indifferent toss of his uniform's hat; he stepped out of the room.

"You're just in time," Dewey said. "My shift just ended, and not a moment too soon. You should've seen the drawers of this one guy from Room 34. It looked like he sat on a chocolate cake."

May didn't know whether to gag or laugh, but she opted to laugh considering the day she had.

"Well, now that we're both free, let's see if we can go up to the main deck," May suggested. "There might not be a lot of people there, so we can check out the ocean before it gets too dark."

Dewey gave a stretch, saying, "Sounds like a plan."

They strolled a few yards down the hall, on their way to one of the ornate stairways that would take them to the main deck, when they both noticed Lens coming down the hall in the opposite direction.

It wasn't until she was close enough, that the teens could see that she soaking wet from top to bottom, and looking as crotchety as an unwillingly drenched human could express.

"Lens! What happened?" May asked.

"A prank," Lens sputtered as her shoes squelched in their own puddles. " I was fixin' to clean that stateroom that's being used by that minstrel group as their dressing room. But they played a practical joke on me as soon as I got in the room."

Dewey was about to surmise what was played on her, when a man with a remarkably uncanny resemblance to Don Adams, approached.

"Ah, yes! The old Water Bucket Over The Door Trick," he answered as he continued to walk by.

"Exactly," Dewey concurred. "But are you alright? You want us to get you some towels or something?"

Lens wrung some water from one of her sleeves. "No, child, that's alright. I'm going downstairs to the Equipment Room to change clothes."

"Are you sure?" May pressed. "Can we, at least, walk you there?"

Lens raised a hand to cease May and Dewey's fretting. "It'll take more than some man-children to get the best of me. But I see that look in your eye and I want you two to remember something. You're not part of the real crew. No one knows you're stowaways, so don't go getting into trouble trying to pay those men back."

The maternal power of Lens made May and Dewey feel far younger than their age. Detecting the nascent desire for vengeance on behalf of one of their benefactors was child's play to her. As one, the teens hung their collective heads low in compliance.

"Yes, ma'am," they mumbled.

"Just go on doing what you were going to do and don't worry about me or the others," the old woman continued. "That way, you'll be on your way to New York all the quicker. Now, I better go."

She held her head up with as much dignity as she could muster and resumed her march down the hall, leaving squelching footprints in her wake on the carpet.

There was no sense in May's mind to fight Lens on the subject. This ship was the housekeeper's world and she knew its politics better than anyone there. The last thing they needed to do was to, figuratively, rock the boat.

"She reminds me of my mama," Dewey said, with what May could only guess, was a distant sadness.

May said nothing, but looked at Dewey as though it were her first time again.

 _Who was he? What was_ his _story?_

There would be time to know soon enough, and there was no sense in wasting time getting there.

"Come on," she prompted softly, "Let's go."

She gently held Dewey's hand and drew him along as he kept watching Lens walk away. Eventually, he stopped watching, and walked alongside May without resistance.

Of the many professional slave catchers that populated the country, three of their number, Joe, Garry and Murray, were unique in that they were _almost_ morons.

Known collectively, and with some humor, as The Three Stupids, they were reputed huntsman, only because they just managed to eek out a living, in spite of their group incompetence.

Whether by sheer luck or even more determination, the trio made their fortune as manhunters on the fringes of the field, reluctantly yielding the floor to better bounty men and their bigger scores.

However, hard work, eventually, paid off, no matter how morally suspect, and they were able to scrap together enough funds for a fairly decent vacation cruise, which they currently were enjoying up on the main deck.

"It was a good idea taking this vacation, Joe," the curly haired Garry said while he took his ease by the railing.

"You said it, Spinach Chin," Joe agreed gruffly. "That Fugitive Slave Act made things a little dicey for us, competition-wise, but we showed those amateurs what a difference a professional makes."

He held his lined face to the wind as it ruffled his bowl haircut.

"But don't forget," he warned. "Just because we're on top, doesn't mean we have ta go soft. We need ta keep practicing ta stay in tip-top shape."

That confused Gary somewhat. "But, Joe. There're no escaped slaves on this ship."

Joe gave him a glare of annoyance. "I know that, ya porcupine! We'll just find a couple of black crew men to chase around as practice, that's all. All we have to do is find them."

A few feet away, the last third of the brain trust was listening to Joe's conversation, leaning a bit too far over the railing, and was in danger of falling overboard, when he happened to glance off to the side.

There, standing together on deck, just rear of the ship, were two blacks like Joe wanted. A male and a female, seemingly alone amongst the other patrons, who warily kept to themselves.

Righting himself with a speed that belied his bulk, Murray tottered over to his two comrades-in-arms.

"Hey, Joe! Hey, Joe!"

"Whadya want, Chowder Head?"

Murray pointed wildly in the blacks' general direction while explaining.

"Ya said ya wanted some blacks ta play around with, didn't ya?"

"Yeah, so?"

Murray finally stopped gesticulating and stood with a smug grin on his plump face as he nodded over to where May and Dewey were standing, and said, "How's that?"

Joe and Garry looked over to the duo's direction, with Joe vainly attempting to look analytical, trying to size them up.

With grudging acceptance, he told Murray, "Not bad, Lamebrain. You're almost _retarded_."

Taking that as high praise, Murray said, "Thanks! I woik hard at it."

Joe gathered the others into a quick huddle.

"Okay, fellas. We rush 'em both when I give the signal," he instructed.

"What's the signal?" Garry asked.

"Now."

Murray, whose mind was known to wander at the drop of a hat, didn't pay attention to the instruction and asked, " _What's_ now?"

"The signal," Joe said. "'Now' is the signal."

"No, Joe," Murray said, shaking his head pedantically. "Now is the winter of our discontent. Nyuk! Nyuk! Nyuk!" He immediately earned a slap on the nose for his troubles.

With the dispensation of punishment done, Joe stood, affected a mock-heroic stance while he pointed in the sky, and said, "To the hunt!"

Garry and Murray matched Joe's stance, and all three chanted in mental preparation, "To the hunt! To the hunt! To the hunt! To the hunt! To the hunt! To the hunt!"

The two stowaways marveled at the vista of the darkening seas. Their bodies and minds were gradually unwinding to the sight of seagulls hovering opportunistically about the vessel, and the hypnotic sounds of the ship's huge side paddles as they broke water and churned the ocean into foamy propulsion.

The relaxing setting must have lowered Dewey's inhibitions, as well, because he found himself putting an arm around May's shoulder before he became fully conscious of the move.

May had quietly stiffened in surprise of the move, and he felt it through his offered arm.

"Uh, it was starting to get a little nippy," he tried nonchalantly to explain. "I didn't want you to catch cold, that's all." He felt like a damned fool for being so forward with her.

May looked up at him with a slightly coy smile, and instead, snuggled up against him.

Now the scene was complete for the both of them. The sea, the sunset, the sound of the waves, and each other. Blissful perfection.

The passengers, for the most part, ignored the strangely acting trio as they _laughingly_ stalked their prey down the deck.

Joe, with handled net in hand, took point in the maneuver, covering large amounts of distance by cartoonishly stretching his legs out to an unnatural degree in an exaggerated tiptoe.

Garry chose to accompany Joe, unobtrusively, on his belly, literally slithering beside him like a thin, balding, curly-haired serpent.

Murray was slowly bringing up the rear, floating along like a human balloon, three feet off the deck, and alternating between doing exaggerated versions of both the breast stroke and the dog paddle.

No matter how patently ridiculous the three looked as they approached…they still approached.

May suddenly tensed again, feeling a strange chill run through her, and for a second she wondered if Dewey was actually telling the truth about the air being too cool.

After a moment's analysis, she successfully put her finger on the feeling.

"Dewey," she asked calmly as she took a slow, cautious glance up the deck. "Did you ever have the feeling you were being watched?"

Dewey followed her lead, moving only his eyes in the direction of the movement on the deck.

"We're black, cher." Dewey scoffed. "When _haven't_ we ever felt like that? On three. One."

"Two," May counted as the three figures moved into range.

"Three!"

Both teens leapt away to the side and sprinted down a staircase to the lower decks, as The Three Stupids, planning a surprise dog pile, leapt, themselves, and crashed in a painful, embarrassed heap against the railing.

In an unoccupied stateroom, May sat on the bed, panting from the close call and staring at the door she locked. Her mind kept running every recent memory back and forth, trying to find the fateful moment when she and Dewey apparently slipped up and had their covers blown.

Dewey, for his part, was doing the same as he sat on a chair in the corner of the room. Although he never did laundry before, he was a quick enough study that no one complained much about his performance in the laundry room today, so that wasn't the reason.

And even though he wanted to get back at the minstrels for what they did to Lens, he obeyed and had not gotten involved, so _that_ wasn't it.

So then why were they being pursued all of the sudden?

"Who the hell were those guys?" May asked irritably, while Dewey leaned back in his chair.

"I don't know, cher," he sighed. "Slave catchers, maybe. That damn Fugitive Slave Act'll turn anybody into a wanna-be bounty hunter. Can't trust anybody, hardly, when that happens. We best keep on our toes from here on out."

"Amen to that."

"And that also means we can't go back to the Equipment Room, either," he told her.

May was hit by the news. She was just getting to know everybody in there, and good and varied company was a necessity on long trips.

"How come?"

"If somebody's lookin' for us, then we can't lead them back to the others, cher. They did enough for us, and we'd be pretty poor guests to bring the law down on 'em for that."

"Yeah, you're right. But what do we do now?"

"Well, we can't stay here, and it's a good bet they got somebody guardin' the hold. We need to find a place to hide until New York, and food to last us until then."

Dewey then cocked his head to the side in thought, and then said, "And I think I might have an idea about that."

"I'm all ears."

"Well," he said. "The first thing we need to do is..."

The stateroom door opened slowly and the two of them eased their heads out to check the hallway. It was empty and they were satisfied.

Together, the two closed the door and quickly tiptoed away, heading towards the Laundry Room to get what they needed to make this desperate trick work. It would have been bittersweet to return to the Equipment Room and tell everybody there why they couldn't see them again, but the fewer who knew what was happening, the better.

As they left, the portly Margaret Dumont appeared and used her key to open the stateroom door.

Groucho Marx and his brothers, Chico and Harpo, along with everyone else involved in the classic gag from A Night At The Opera, upon the door's opening, immediately knocked her down.

The ship's kitchens were in a constant state of hustle. The head chef looked at Dewey, wearing a gold Room Service Attendant's uniform, and May, in her blue and white housekeeper's uniform, quizzically.

"I haven't seen you two before," the chef said warily. If Dewey was worried, he didn't show it.

"Just been transferred. Latest models," Dewey said smoothly. "Believe it, or not, we can do more than one thing at a time. The scientists in _Europe_ call it _multitasking._ "

May watched in silent awe as he gave his best disarming smile and pitched the two of them to the man as though they were the latest marvel at a world's fair.

"The agency's hoping to replace all the older Ebots on board with newer models like us, but why listen to _me_ talk, when you can see us in action. We'll deliver your food and clean rooms twenty-five percent faster than standard models, and since we're both demos, if you allow us to show you our capabilities, we'll make sure that the agency will put in a good word to the captain about _you_ , sir."

The chef knew he was taking a huge chance in not keeping up with his work in the kitchen to evaluate the worth, if not the veracity, of these two. But, being overworked and hoping the captain's recommendation could sweeten his resume, and therefore, land him a better culinary job elsewhere, he nodded in rushed approval.

"Okay, okay. Take these orders and get them to their rooms and then come back for another pick-up," the chef told him.

May and Dewey placed the waiting, covered platters on the cart assigned to them and turned to leave the kitchen.

They had just made it to the threshold, when the head chef called after them to stop. The duo obeyed, but fought the look of worry that tried to crawl across their faces.

They turned to face the chef as he approached them, but the cook's expression turned out to be one of strangely genuine curiosity.

"I was wondering. How come _she_ doesn't say anything?" he asked, keeping a steady eye on her.

Dewey glanced nervously at her. He couldn't understand, for the life of him, why the chef was so concerned that _May_ didn't say anything.

Maybe he put too much emphasis on having the chef pay attention to _him._ Fear was making him panic that he didn't think far enough ahead to counter questions like those.

May, feeling all eyes on her, fell deep in thought for a moment.

Then a spark of inspiration twinkled in her eyes. She gave the chef her most innocent smile…and whistled up and down while she moved her arms in the gestures of having a conversation with him.

"What's all that about?" the chef asked Dewey, not knowing what to make of this odd, musical event.

Dewey wished he could kiss her right then and there, but he valiantly suppressed a smile at May's quick thinking, and followed her lead, saying, "Ah! She says it's a new function, sir. Instead of having the women talk, they have to communicate by whistling. I'm one of the few who can understand, but we _must_ get this food to the waiting passengers, sir."

The notion of displeasing the passengers, and thus, the captain, brought the chef back down to earth quickly.

"Yeah, yeah. Okay, you two, get moving," he said, while waving them off dismissively.

"Yes, sir," Dewey said, then turned to May and said to her with a smile, "Come along, Audrey."

As the two stowaways walked calmly out the door, May gave a happy little chirp in parting.

* * *

 

The cart squeaked softly with its unaccustomed load of two stolen blankets and pillows, six platters of food, a pail, and a jug of fresh water from the kitchen, as Dewey pushed it all down the carpeted hall and May walked slightly ahead, to give early warning.

This caper had both teens riding an adrenaline high, and their senses were alert and alive since they ditched their uniforms.

"You looked like a brass handle in that suit," May chuckled at him.

"Well, aren't you just precious?" Dewey retorted, good-naturedly. "Still, I have to admit, you were quite the actress back there. Thanks for savin' my bacon."

"Thank _you_ ," she beamed. "You were pretty terrific, yourself. So, do you think we have enough stuff to live off of until we reach New York?"

"I hope so, cher, 'cause it won't take 'em long to find out we weren't who we said we were, and then all hell's gonna break loose."

A depressing thought to be sure, May knew. Everything would ride on timing, to hide for as long as possible, and to get off as soon as the ship was docked, and not a moment sooner.

"Hopefully, it won't come to that," she said, trying to be optimistic.

Up ahead, May, and then Dewey, saw a man coming from an intersection further up the hall and approach a stateroom in the middle of the corridor.

He wore a black suit with large, white trim everywhere, black shoes that seemed a bit too large for him, and a bow tie that was as comical as it was big. He looked like a walking vaudeville act.

He knocked on the door and it opened for him a moment later.

As May and Dewey were about to pass by that particular cabin, they both took a casual look at the white sign that hung on its door and stopped.

The sign said, in simple print, "The Ministers of Minstrel's Dressing Room. Please knock."

"That's them!" May whispered aloud. "It has to be."

"It's a good bet, and I like a little payback as much as the next one, but I don't think we have the time for it, cher."

"I guess so," May conceded, crestfallen. "Okay, let's go."

The sounds of men talking around the corner up ahead, made them tense. The teens left the cart by the stateroom and quietly snuck across the other side of the hall. Then they came up to the corner and peered slowly around it.

The sight was heartbreaking. Although the men's backs were to May and Dewey while they had their animated conversation, they could recognize The Three Stupids by now.

The slave catchers were arguing halfway down the other hall, and there was every chance that they could go up that hall, turn the corner, and run into the two stowaways and their cumbersome cart.

The duo ducked back into their corridor, fretting all the way back to their cart on what to do.

The sound of hard laughing through the stateroom door gave them both a curious pause and they gently leaned their heads against the door to listen in.

" _She never knew what hit her."_

" _That trick never gets old."_

" _I think I'm in love with you."_

The two teens had heard enough.

"You thinking what I'm thinking, cher?" Dewey asked with a diabolical gleam in his eye.

May nodded with a wicked grin. "Time for some mischief."

After a quick huddle, they brought the cart back up the hall from where they came, parked it around a corner, and came back.

May then took a marker that she had brought from the cart, flipped the sign over so it showed a blank back, and then began to write on it.

Once she was done, she knocked on the door and said in a good imitation of a woman of authority, "Five minutes 'til showtime, gentlemen!"

As they had hoped, the so-called entertainers were taken aback by the sudden change in time. One of the minstrels called out through the door, "Already? O-Okay, let us put on our make-up and we'll be right out!"

"Thank you!" she sing-sang in reply.

She ran back to where the cart was left behind, to hide, while Dewey took a deep breath and then walked down the hall until he reached the intersection.

He was grateful that they hadn't left the area yet, upon seeing the bumbling bounty men. He coughed loud enough to get their collective attention, causing them to turn and see him standing in the middle of the intersection.

"Excuse me," he said with smooth affectation. "Could I trouble you for a white woman?"

Dewey tore back up the hall, inspired by the sounds of shoes stomping after him, and thoughts of those same shoes stomping _on_ him.

He reached May and the cart around the corner just seconds before The Three Stupids made it to the intersection and looked up the now deserted hall.

They went door to door, turning locked doorknobs to open and hunt down the offender, but to no avail.

Then Garry saw something that made him signal the others to join him. The three irate men gathered in front of a stateroom door that had a sign that said proudly, "Escaped slaves! Here!"

With a combined kick from the three of them, they violently forced the door open.

The Three Stupids rushed into the room with purpose, brandishing axe handles, and then began to grin malevolently upon seeing five frightened men in blackface, running and huddling in a corner.

"Gentlemen," Joe said with a sneer. "Fuck 'em up."

Even with the door closed, May and Dewey could still hear, from their vantage point, the terrible screams and merciless impact from the axe handles.

"Well, now. Maybe they'll have some _black eyes_ to go with their blackface," said May, matter-of-factly, as they guided the cart down the hall and resumed their search for a place to hide until the ship's destination.

* * *

 

May had to admit that it would have probably been the last place anyone would have thought to look, as she finished her dinner.

As wide and beautiful as the sky was during the day, the jeweled night sky that curved over Dewey, herself, and the dark, moon-kissed ocean, was just as mysterious and as majestic.

And just as romantic, May thought, as she wondered why they had to hide on the very roof of the steamship via a maintainence stairway they found way aft of the forward wheelhouse.

"You have to admit, cher," Dewey said, lying back on his blanket, amidst the covered platters they brought up, to stargaze after a full meal. "You can't beat the view."

"That's true," she said, lounging on her own blanket and looking back at the beautiful setting before them.

Dewey turned on his side to look at the beautiful setting before _him_. With the stars as a backdrop against her, May looked as though she belonged with them.

"We work pretty good together, too, y'know?"

May smiled. "We do."

"When we get to New York, we'll have to get something fast to go overland if we want to catch up to The Hunter, like a coach."

May looked over to Dewey with concern. "Do we have that kind of money for one?"

Dewey sat up, his eyes shining with a determination that May could see was bordering on the reckless. "If we don't, we might have to steal some silverware and pawn it for money, or maybe steal a horse. I'm good with them. Or _something_. We can't quit now. Anything and everything, cher. Isn't your family _worth_ that?"

May gently put her hand on Dewey's shoulder to calm him, maybe even save him from himself.

"Dewey," she said softly. "I didn't say that we should quit. Of course, they're worth it to me. I just…wanted to know what we might have to do for us to get to them."

"I-I'm sorry, cher." Dewey said, silently cursing himself for letting his guilt take control of him. For trying to make her more like _him_. "That's…just what I'd do for my mama. I know you'd do the same."

Even in the night, May could see the pain in his eyes.

"Did something happen to your mother, Dewey?"

He wished he didn't see the compassion in her eyes. He wished he didn't feel his defenses beginning to crumble before her. She was the enigma. How could he feel both vulnerable and strengthened just by being by her side?

"No," he told her. "But for the longest time, I thought I was gonna lose her."

She couldn't figure out what was wrong with him. What pain was he hiding that was killing him slowly from within? Despite her wanting to know more _and_ be there for him, she realized that being there was enough, and she wouldn't pry.

May worked up a cheerful smile and said, "Well, Lord willin', I'm not gonna lose my folks. If I didn't say it enough before, Dewey, I want to say again. Thank you for helping me find them. And thank you for bringing me out here. I mean, look at me! I'm on a boat going down to New York, of all places. And when we get off, who knows what's next? That's never _happened_ to me before. That one of a _hundred_ things that's never happened to me before."

May stopped talking when Dewey gently cupped her surprised face in his hands, and said to her, "Then let's make this the second."

And then he kissed her.

She had never been kissed before, not like this. The small moans that escaped her were not her own, she vaguely knew. It was her trembling heart speaking through her, in a language Dewey was all too receptive to, with every amorous push his lips gave hers.

She was no longer in control, and she wanted more and more to lose herself. She felt like she would melt away into air, into starlight.

But the contact gently broke too soon, and she came back down to earth, panting softly. She could contribute her light-headedness to an over-abundance of love, or a lack of oxygen, she didn't care which.

Everything she saw about him would change from then on.

Everything she saw about _the world_ would change from then on.

She saw a shooting star passed over them, heading for the horizon, towards its destiny. Just as May felt they were.

They said nothing. They simply held each other against the cool Atlantic air and watched the silent drama of the heavens play out for their wonder until they finally slept in each other's arms.

Unbeknownst to them, or to any other souls on board the _Plymouth_ , a man in a brown suit was standing on the main deck aft of the ship, watching his shooting star arc away into the night.

Satisfied, he tucked the flare gun back into his jacket, and quietly walked away.


	7. Chapter 7

The Hunter left the restroom trailing toilet paper from the heel of his otherwise well-tailored boot.

He strolled past car after car, heading for the one car that mattered most to him at that moment, the prison car furthest to the rear of the train.

He didn't need to worry about Lois somehow slipping away while he was there. She was secure enough, and the story he told everyone on board, of her being a regular Lizzie Borden, would help keep everyone's eyes on her for the duration of the trip.

He slid the reinforced door open and took in all that he surveyed.

In a large cage by the corner of the car, Nate Griffin watched his captor saunter in, with anger in his eyes. Beside him, his sons stood by, not sure how to proceed, but ready to assist their father in an instant's command.

"Where's Lois, you rotten bastard!" Nate yelled from across the car.

The Hunter sighed and walked, almost bored, over to them. It was always the same with these captures. Sturm and Drang that never accomplished anything, and in the end, he got paid, and they were never seen again.

But, since he was going to retire soon on this one bounty, he figured he'd be lenient and give them something in return.

He stopped a prudent distance from the cage and, as if spouting a speech he long since never care for, or truly believed in, he gave a deadpan, non-stop recitation of the following.

"Okay, here's the long and the short of it. You and your sons will hang when all is said and done, and Lois will join you, unless you prove to her how much you love her by letting her go back to her father. If you do this, then I will allow her to see you. If not, then she stays where she is for the rest of the trip. Understood?"

Nate tried to slow down the rapid-fire delivery in his head and managed to get enough of it to worry.

"Wait! Wait! You said you'd let her go, if _we_ let her go?" he asked.

"No. I said she wouldn't be hung with you three, if you let her go back to her _father_ ," The Hunter corrected him.

"You know, I could have sworn he said he'd let her go if he were hung _with_ us," Huey chimed in.

"No, son, that's not-"

"No, Huey. I think he said that he was going to be let go from work if he hung out with _her_ ," said Curtis, incorrectly.

"No! That's not what I-"

"Nah, boys! He's saying that we can see her father get _hung_ if we let ourselves go. Right?"

" _No!"_ The Hunter barked in hair-pulling frustration. When he allowed himself to calm down again he looked at the three Griffins, and saw that they looked back at his displeasure with smug and silent amusement.

"Think you're _so_ funny, huh. Well, you'll all be knockin' 'em dead in Hell before long, I guarantee! Now what's it gonna be, Pork Barrel? You gonna do right by her, or are you gonna be selfish and let her swing with ya'll?"

Nate's full face went somber with the weight of that truth. Lois, his wife of almost twenty years, was going to die beside him, and there was something he could actually do about it.

"If…I say yes to this," he said slowly, fighting the visions of his wife's dead face staring at him. "You swear you'll let her go? Even if it's to her father?"

"My word as a gentleman," The Hunter said with a slight bow.

"No, Pop!" Curtis yelled at Nate. "Don't let him kill her! Don't let Mom die!"

Nate could say nothing to counter the bargain, and Curtis could see it in his eyes. He couldn't blame his father for this, he could see the hell he was going through, but he could do something to the man who brought down all of this inescapable grief.

Curtis shoved his pudgy arm through the spaces between a set of bars, straining, clawing his fingers in the air, to clutch The Hunter and drag him to the cage and…what? Choke him? Beat him? Kill him? He didn't know, but if it would free his mother from death, then no outcome was too harsh.

The Hunter took a cautious step back and warned Nate, "You better do something with that boy of yours, or he'll wind up being the caboose _to_ the caboose, ya understand?"

Nate put his hand on his eldest son's shoulder and called out to him.

"Curtis! Curtis! Stop it, boy! You can't help your mother this way. We have to be strong for her. We have to show her that we love her that much."

Curtis tore away from the bars to look at his father, tears freely rolling down his face.

"I don't want her to die! I…I don't want to die, _either_ , Dad! I'm scared!"

"I know, son. We all have to, sometime. But, can you be brave for your mother that long, Curtis? _Can you?_ "

Curtis bowed his head, trying to stop the shaking that rattled him from head to toe, but he slowly nodded. Then he walked over to a corner of the cage, sat down, and faced his mortality in silence.

Nate turned back to regard The Hunter with as much loathing as he though he deserved. He knew it wasn't nearly enough.

"Alright. You go what you wanted. We'll let her go. Now let us see her!"

The Hunter bowed in a mockery of obsequiousness and backed away.

"Your one and _only_ wish is my command," he said, as he slid the door open once more.

"Hey!"

The Hunter stopped in the middle of the threshold and turned to see Huey toddling up to the bars and looking dead into his eyes.

The Hunter gave a disdainful smirk and hunched down so Huey could see him better.

"What do you want, little man?"

"How much do you weigh?"

The Hunter looked quizzically at him. That was clearly an odd thing to ask, but he figured he'd humor him before his family was destroyed and he was ultimately sold off.

"A buck-ninety. Why?"

"Poison works more efficiently if one knows the weight of the victim," Huey explained with a polar logic that would have chilled a mortician.

The Hunter scoffed at him and left The Griffin Men to their misery.

* * *

 

The captain checked his pocket watch with one hand, and held a small picture in the other.

23:30 Hours.

Rather late for a security briefing, but he prided himself that no stowaway ever made it all the way to his or her destination with out doing it in the brig. Sleep could wait.

Since the unexpected news of the trespassers was so sudden, he decided to hold the impromptu meeting in the wheelhouse. Before him stood the Chief of Security and few of his subordinates, standing in a ready semi-circle.

"Gentlemen, as you know, we have a couple of stowaways on board," he said. "They've eluded us for now, but they'll show up again before we dock in New York."

"Do we know what they look like, sir?" asked the Chief.

"We have the head chef and some of the kitchen staff as witnesses who helped us with a description. The first one is tall, wearing gold or yellow, and the second one is short, wearing what appears to be blue and white, and communicates only by whistling. Here's an artist's rendering of what they look like."

He handed the Chief the picture. On it was an unforeseen portrait of R2-D2 and C-3PO.

_The bookstore had a packed house that day. The line of customers eager for Frederick Douglass to sign their copies of his newest book ran from the table of the guest of honor, through the store's interior, and around the block._

_Every patron in attendance guarded their spot in line jealously, and the pain in their feet and knees from standing so long and moving so slowly, was blocked out with the mental discipline of a high-ranking ninja._

_Frederick sat, or rather, lounged in his padded seat, coolly checking out the people who gladly marched to stand before his presence, just so he could deign to make their day or even lifetime. He glanced up again at the two slabs of meat that silently stood by him as bodyguards. A necessity in these times, he knew, but he wouldn't let their presence dampen his well-earned moment._

" _Who's next," he asked jovially, and sounding very much like Billy Dee Williams, as he readied his writing hand for another signature._

_As that satisfied person left, May appeared next, holding her copy to her chest as she nervously toddled up to him, like a penitent offering a sacrifice._

" _Well, who might you be?" Frederick asked for the sake of conversation, as he reached out his hand to take the book and open it. Oddly, May still held onto it._

_May could barely force the words out, and she was still coming to grips with the fact that she was standing right in front of her idol and nothing untoward had happened to her yet._

" _M-May G-Griffin, sir," she managed to squeak out, and then she resumed her rigid stance._

_Frederick didn't think she wanted to hold the line up, but that was what she was in danger of doing, and the last thing he needed was for his bodyguards to have a reason to pound in heads and ruin his day._

" _I'm going to need that book, if you want me to sign it, little miss," he offered smoothly._

_May tensed, as though electrified, as though she were making up her mind to do the chanciest of behavior. Then, she went ahead and did it._

_Risking misconstrued action from his protectors, May rushed over to Frederick's side and quickly whispered in his ear. His eyes widened very quickly._

" _Are you sure, miss?" he asked, not wanting to disappoint, but not wanting to seem like a libertine, either. His answer, when she jumped back to her spot in line, was a madly anticipatory grin and a far-too-willing nod._

" _Okay." Frederick lifted his pen as May leaned over the table, closing her eyes to embrace the sheer joy of the moment._

_The pen's nib hovered over her right breast, and then, contact. He began to sign._

_With a sigh, May vowed in ecstasy, "I'll never wash this tit again."  
_

Meanwhile, in reality, May giggled softly in her sleep as an opportunistic seagull was busy pecking errant crumbs of food from off her chest, and was now finding the bits that stuck on her bodice.

"Mmm, you can start a new book on me, Freddie, baby," she murmured contentedly.

The captain, the chief of security, the chief officer, and a security team beheld the sight that greeted them on the ship's roof. May and Dewey, splayed across the roof in deep sleep, amidst mostly covered dinner platters and hungry sea birds, feasting and fighting over the scraps the two left behind on their plates.

The captain approached the one that was focused on May and brutally kicked it away.

Blissfully unaware of him, May slept so soundly, that she let out a sudden and unladylike snore, muttering, "No, no! U-Use the eraser. I can take it."

The captain decided he heard enough. He walked back to his group, and with a blasé wave of his hand, ordered, "All right, men. Wake them up, but gently."

The armed security officers left their chief's side, turned and raised their rifles, and began hitting the two teens with butt strokes until the teens woke up, yelling in consternation.

When the rousing ceased, May and Dewey sat back to back, frightened, embarrassed, worried, and surrounded by angry officers. As much as they hated the situation, they hated themselves more for their carelessness. They were literally caught napping, and their inner voices were berating them for every woulda, shoulda, and coulda they could guiltily think of.

"Surprisingly clever of you to think of hiding on the roof," the chief smugly told them as they were brought to their feet by the rifle-bearing security team. "But you didn't count on God's flying rats of the sea, did you? The seagulls led us right to you."

"All right, men," the captain ordered the team when he turned to lead them back inside the ship. "Take Thomasine & Bushrod to the brig. They can keep those three slave catchers we caught company the rest of the way to New York."

As she and Dewey were being led back to the maintenance hatch, the implications were as clear as glass to her. With a mournful heart, she knew that once those cell doors closed on her, both in the brig, and later, in the jail house, she'd never see her family alive again.

A distant boom, like from a fireworks show, echoed across the sea, catching everyone's attention. A loud, ponderous splash followed, raising seawater in a foamy plume a few hundred yards from the tall bow of _Plymouth_. Then the alarm bell sounded.

Frightfully loud, not to mention late, for a supposed warning about their illegal presence, she wondered, as the bell continued to clang both louder and faster.

By the time she and Dewey were more or less fully awake, May realized that the bell was, in fact, ringing for something else, because all of the uniformed men around her began looking on the dark waters for something, and they were feeling as pensive as she was.

One of the security officers, the furthest from his group, spotted what looked like another side paddle steamer, only smaller, coming up from portside.

The ship's hull was low to the waterline and sleek, despite its squat, busy-looking topside. Dark crimson, though some would say blood red, sails were stretched with the nightly breeze.

But two things about the mysterious vessel gave the man pause. The first was the ring of cannons that radiated from amidships like arms in a Bob Fosse review. The second was what the officer saw emblazoned on the forward sail of the ship.

Dimly white, yet legible, even in the dark of the night, was the ship's symbol, as universally loathed, as it was feared.

"Skull and Crosswrenches!" the young man screamed in the wind. "Steam Pirates!"

The captain quickly took a bearing from where the officer was pointing and lined his spyglass with it, watching the approaching ship carefully.

When he spied the attached masthead of a sneering, humanoid rooster wearing an eyepatch, holding his feathered crotch with one hand and raising a sword to the oncoming waves with the other, the captain muttered to any within earshot, "Damn! It's that floating phallic symbol, the _Sea Cock_!"

Another boom, and a heavier splash erupted from the water dangerously close to the _Plymouth's_ hull, a quick warning shot from the pirate ship's forward guns that proved that she was more than prepared to breach the cruise ship should the order be given.

The captain went to his chief officer and led him away from the others to talk privately.

"Get all the passengers together and bring them to the Grand Lobby. Make sure they have all of their personal valuables with them, too. My thinking is the pirates won't _kill_ me if they see that the guests are carrying loot. And raise the Pirate-Universal Surrender of Ships and Yachts flag so they can see it."

"The P-USSY flag, sir?" the second-in-command asked.

"Correct. I don't want them to think we're not complying, and they sink this ship. 'Cause I'm not going down with you freaks."

"I _knew_ there was a reason why you're captain, sir," the officer said proudly. "But what about the stowaways?"

Mentioning them threw the man off-stride for a second, so he gave a thoughtful look at the pair. His eyes then twinkled with a devious plan.

"Take them to the Equipment Room. I think I have an idea that just might save my lily-white ass, yet again."

"Very capital, top drawer, spank-me-in-a-tutu, good, sir,"

"Carry on."

May almost lost sight of Dewey in the crush of the crowd when the Equipment Room was filled with of all Ebots, both off-duty and the rest who were relieved of duty.

The tension level in the room was understandably high. Governor, Smokestack and Lens did their best to lower their subordinates' anxieties with varying degrees of success.

In a corner set away from the growing unease around them, May and Dewey sat together, one focusing solely on the other, and finding a measure of stability in the turmoil.

They could see in each other's eyes that they both weren't quite sure how to proceed with the state of affairs set before them, both tactically and romantically.

May's mind and heart were as tossed and out of control as a raft in a hurricane. With the fear of what was to come, even if she wasn't exactly sure what it was, threading in and out of her thoughts about Dewey and that kiss, it almost crowded out the distressing thoughts of not seeing her family again. Of failing when they were so close to clearing the first hurdle of this perilous journey.

' _Pirates,'_ she thought. _'I sure didn't see_ this _coming. Just like last night. Did I do the right thing with that kiss?'_

' _Well, technically,_ he _kissed_ you _,'_ her mental twin, a manifestation her inner voice, said.

' _Yeah, well, I don't remember pulling away, either. Guess my lips were too busy to say 'Stop'.'_

' _Don't tell me you're_ regretting _this. You do_ like _him, don't you?'_

' _The first boy who ever wanted to spend more than a few minutes with me? Duh!'_ May scoffed sarcastically.

' _Then what's the problem?"_ her double asked. _"It was just a kiss. A great, big, wonderful kiss!'_

'That's _the problem. Everything's going so fast, I...I don't know what will happen next. God, I'm such a country girl!"_ she fretted to herself. _"All I know is Quahog and, technically, the plantation I grew up in. But I can see it in his eyes that Dewey's been everywhere, done...everything.'_

' _You're afraid you're going to lose him already?'_

' _I can't help it. I never had this feeling before. It's amazing. It's like getting struck by lightning, and I'm afraid whatever I have as a failing, is gonna drive him away."_

With her stomach slightly twisting in a knot, May had to force herself to admit what came next.

" _I know he's seen prettier girls than me. He might even have…slept with a few. But when I see him, I keep asking myself, 'Why me?' Am I lucky? Am I fooling myself? I love what I think I'm getting into, but because it's_ me _, I'm afraid it'll be gone in the morning.'_

Her inner voice shook her head compassionately and put her hand on May's shoulder, squeezing it for emphasis.

' _Listen to me. You may know what's in your heart, May Griffin, but you don't know what's around the corner. That's part of the fun. The other part's_ him _. Ask him what he sees in you. He might be worldly, he might not, but that doesn't mean he always knows a good thing when it's in front of him. It's up to you to show him what that is.'_

May let those understanding words seep deep into her soul and the simple wisdom of their message began melting her insecurities away, at least for now.

' _Thanks. I really feel a lot better now.'_

' _That's great, because we're probably going to be killed by pirates, and it's a safe bet that it'll be more merciful than you explaining to your boyfriend why you just spent the last moments of_ both _your lives_ talking _, instead of thinking, to yourself.'_

May stiffened in mortification, her ears burning. "What?"

' _I'm just sayin','_ her inner voice shrugged. Then she quietly vanished.

May uncomfortably looked at Dewey's kindly, yet quizzical expression following her odd soliloquy.

"It's the stress. _Really_ ," she tried to explain with a painfully awkward smile.

Dewey paused to consider the moment, and then dismissed it away with a shake of his head, chuckling to free all of the pent-up stress and anxiety he, himself, was feeling.

"You're one interestin' girl, May Griffin," he declared, smiling.

"I am?" she asked.

"True dat. If it means anything, I don't regret that kiss last night, and I don't know where we're goin with this, _either_. But, I don't mind sharin' the trip with you."

"Oh, Dewey," May sighed relievedly, her awkward smile growing more and more into a peaceful one.

The front hatch opened and security filed in, ordering every worker to his or her feet, and to accompany them to the main deck.

Holding her hand as they both stood and followed the rest of the crowd, he said to her, "C'mon, interestin' girl. Let's see what's goin' on."

By the time the swift criminal vessel sidled up to the _Plymouth_ , a large, pink flag with the picture of a kitten wearing a sailor's cap, was flying high and snapping in the breeze above the cruise ship.

Longboats, heavily modified to be longer still, to hold more people, and rigged, catamaran-style, with lengthy pontoons that contained miniature rear paddle steam engines, launched from the _Sea Cock's_ davits and cruised to their prey.

Grapples snagged railings and pirates attached lines to reinforced metal rings on their belts. With well-practiced leaps, the brigands clamped onto _Plymouth's_ hull and virtually walked up its surface via specialized boots with magnets in the heels and toes.

"P-USSY flag up, sir!" an officer confirmed to the captain upon its raising.

"Very good, officer," he acknowledged.

He then turned to the security officers that lined the railing facing the encroaching thieves.

"Gentlemen, prepare for boarders."

The armed men held up their rifles in line with the railing, waiting for the first criminals to show up, in order, it seemed, to cut them down. Suddenly, they dropped the weapons to the deck, and held up their hands, just as the pirates, led by their flamboyantly dressed leader, clambered on board.

The chief officer came forward and greeted one of the pirates with an ingratiating grin.

"Welcome aboard the _Plymouth_. We understand that you have a choice of ships to plunder, so we thank you for-"

"Non!" said the French leader. "You do not address him. He is only my seaman from my _Sea Cock_. You will speak to me, Capitan Petit-Crockaire."

The officer thought he had misheard. "Captain… _Betty Crocker_?"

"Non. Petit-Crockaire."

"Betty Crocker?"

"Petit-Crockaire!"

"Betty Crocker?"

"Petit-Crockaire!"

"Bet- _Oomph_!" The officer quickly doubled over from a vicious kick in the groin delivered by the Frenchman.

Leaving the man in a heap, he looked up to see the P-USSY flag waving overhead.

"Ah! It _nevaire_ fails. When ze _Sea Cock_ is out, you respond with ze P-USSY, non?" he commented to any who could hear him.

"Bonsoir, Capitan," he greeted the senior officer. "My crew and I zank you. Once again, your perennial cowardice will make our haul a successful one."

Petit-Crockaire's pleasant demeanor changed to one of sudden suspicion when he noticed the large congregation of black crewers standing together off on one side of the deck, none of them knowing what to make of any of this.

"What is zis?" he asked. "Why do you have zese blacks on your deck? Were zey here to help you defend your ship?"

The Plymouth's captain gave a sly shrug. "You could say that. They're _yours_. A little something extra to help sweeten the pot and insure that my ass, my ship, my crew, and the passengers, _in that order_ , remain unharmed."

The Frenchman gave a tight, greedy grin. "A tribute, eh? Well, we can always get a little something for zem on ze slave market."

"Don't you mean, the _black_ market?" the American quipped.

Both men belly-laughed boisterously until Petit-Crockaire decided to give him a sudden backhanded slap to the face.

"Shut up, you sniveling, little man-person!" the freebooter commanded.

"Shutting up, sir. Yes, sir," he said, obsequiously, favoring his reddened cheek.

Petit-Crockaire strutted up to his men, shouting triumphantly, "Come, men! Tonight, we fill ze _Sea Cock_ with booty!"

He then took a lustful glance at some of the younger black women in the crowd.

"And maybe fill some booties with ze sea cock, eh? Take zem!"

As practiced plunderers, the pirates split into two teams. One went inside the ship's opulent lobby and handled the collection of the passengers' reluctantly donated wealth. The other went to gather the black crewers.

Although the Ebots gave half-hearted resistance to their rough corralling, they more or less moved where they were led, which was to the ship's railing.

May thought that she and the others were going to be fatally dumped overboard, until she saw a number of strange devices clamped to the top rail.

Crude zip lines, newly attached by the pirates, sat ready to transfer the prisoners, one by one, under rifle sight, to the waiting _Sea Cock's_ deck.

Using a retrieval line attached to the lines' trolleys, the black workers were forced by their captors to haul up the riding handlebars, after every ride. With this method, eventually, all workers were brought over in a very short time.

Team One's pirates left the ship's interior with bags of plunder in their grasp, and a mysterious man in a brown suit bringing up the rear.

When the last of the buccaneers, guarding the escape, finally climbed and disappeared over the railing, Petit-Crockaire regarded the captain and the _Plymouth_ crew, gracing them with a full and genteel bow.

"Gentlemen, zank you for bending over for ze _Sea Cock_!" he crowed. "Until we meet again! Adieu!"

He then took his leave, in true piratical flourish, literally _leaping_ over the side.

The cowardly captain of the _Plymouth_ ran over to the railing and looked over it, just in time to see a parachute blossoming from below, carrying the French freebooter safely to the main deck of his ship. With a cocky wave from her captain, the _Sea Cock_ began to withdraw.

As the pirate ship sailed farther and farther away, along the watery path of reflected moonlight, the youthful lieutenant gingerly approached the captain, asking him, "When the company learns of the pirate attack, what shall we tell them about the missing Ebots, sir?"

The captain continued to stare out at the receding aft end of the pirate ship, thankful that he still lived, and thankful that maybe, just maybe, he was able to teach his beloved crew a lesson about the value of self-preservation.

"The same thing we _always_ say. That the brave Ebots decided to give themselves up as hostages in order to save the ship and all aboard her. Yeah, I'd believe that."

He let out a fatigued sigh over his close call, telling his subordinate, "I think we lose more Negroes this way. Oh, well. Out of sight, out of mind. Lieutenant, set a course for New York City, maximum warp."

"Right away, sir!" said the chief officer; more convinced than ever that he was blessed to serve under this obviously honorable man.

May and the other captives were herded in short order through a hatch in the main deck, through the gunnery deck, and into the cluttered hold.

Apparently kidnapping was a lucrative affair to them, as well, she figured, when she saw two large cages sitting on opposite sides of the hold. Immediately the black captives were separated and introduced to their new steely homes; a cage for the men, and the other for the women.

As the pirates filed out of the hold, a force of two guards was left behind. May couldn't believe her luck. Getting taken from one boat to another, and _still_ winding up in a brig. She wanted to see Dewey, but the cage he was in was too far across the room. All she could see was the restless mass of men confined cramply.

With a sigh, she figured that if Dewey wanted to see her, he'd get the same view, with her absorbed into the throng.

A good deal of chatter from both cages died down the moment both groups heard the sound of stylish boots treading heavily on the wooden stairs.

Petit-Crockaire, escorted by two of his men, entered the hold and took an appraising look at the black men in the cage. Satisfied, he strolled more leasurely towards to the women's cage.

As one, all of the women recoiled as the pirate captain approached, filling the rear of the cage, and not caring who was being crushed behind them.

"Why do you run, my dark beauties, eh?" he asked slyly as he reached the bars and luxuriated in the fear his presence inspired. "Oui, it is true zat some of you will be sold again, but don't zink of it as zat. Zink of it as a chance to travel to unknown places…like a new master's home, eh?"

He allowed the women a few minutes to wail and weep over this news, as he rolled his eyes in ecstatic pleasure at the sight, and rubbed his hands all over his chest with slow abandon.

"Yes, yes, my lovelies, yes," he moaned lustfully while his escort stared at him with _deep_ , _deep_ suspicions. "Weep for me. You make love to me with your sorrow. _You make love to me with your sorrow!_ "

He suddenly stopped his antics to continue with his speechmaking.

" _Ahem_. As for ze rest of you, you will have ze honor and pleasure of serving the crew of the illustrious _Sea Cock_ as our…mistresses, as it were. But, as I've always been a big believer of testing out ze merchandise, one of you will become my new test sample, if you will. Don't be shy. You've nothing to lose… _but your dignity._ "

May, not being able to muscle her way to the dubious safety of the back, was exposed up front with a few of the other terrified women. When she heard frantic whispering behind her, she glanced over her shoulder to see the same three girlfriends who gave her so much grief on board the _Plymouth,_ chattering fast in a huddle.

May could see that they were, at least, used to working as a team, in all aspects, including, she knew, man-catching, and in this instance, survival. Their eyes darted nervously around the closest women near them, searching. _Searching_.

Then, without warning, they all locked eyes onto May.

She didn't think she gave herself away while she was spying on their talk, so their stare completely startled her. Together, the trio made room through the throng and pulled May into their circle of three with haste.

"What's going on?" May asked as the girls crowded around her.

"Listen to us, May," whispered One. "As women, we have to protect ourselves from the likes of him, right?"

"Yeah! There's no sense in letting him run roughshod over us, if we can help it," agreed Two.

"And at the same time, we gotta let him know that we aren't going to take his crap," Three chimed in.

"Are you with us…sister?" asked One.

"Yeah," May said slowly. She tried to guess what on earth they could possibly do as a group that could keep an entire boatload of horny sailors at bay. Options were, to put it kindly, limited.

"We can tell them we've got crabs," May suggested.

"This guy eats snails and frogs for fun. What the hell are crabs to him?" One scoffed.

"We can send them Mary," Three offered.

Somewhere in the depths of the crowd, an angry woman's voice called out and clearly said, "Fuck you, whoever said that."

One ignored her and fixed a look of conviction into May's eyes.

"Okay, look. Focus. We have to work together on this. Now we three have come up with a plan. When he asks for one of us to come with him, we're all going to turn our backs on him."

May was flabbergasted into silence.

"That's it?" May asked, completely astounded. "He's gonna come in here, and you guys are gonna play out the last scene from _A Nightmare On Elm Street_?"

"It'll work, May," Two insisted. "But only if everyone shows strength together."

"How about it? Will you stand with us?" One pressed. "As sisters?"

May sighed heavily on this course of action. It was foolhardy. It was meaningless. It was doomed to fail. Yet, despite the futility that this motion was sure to demonstrate, that trio had, to May's chagrin, worked on her sense of feminine solidarity, which gave her the slimmest of hope that this would succeed.

"Alright," she finally acquiesced.

"Thank you, May. You truly are one of us," One said, giving May a reassuring pat on the back.

Two parted people away so May would be able to return to where she was earlier. "You better go back up front, so you won't be missed."

"We'll let you know when it's time, sister," Three assured her.

"Alright," May said as she maneuvered back to the front of the crowd, never noticing the note that One craftily hung on her back.

Petit-Crockaire, waiting with surprising patience, finally said to them, "Now, if zis coffee klatch is finished, let us see who will be the one I will bury my treasure in."

From within the mass of women, One shouted, "Now!"

Every woman and girl, in a swift motion, turned their collective backs on the randy captain, including, with some misgivings, May.

The captain, preparing to unlock the door, stopped, perplexed. What kind of action was this? Apart from showing off some of their shapelier backs and derriers, this certainly wasn't going to stop him from making a choice. If anything, it was actually _helping_ with the selection process.

However, it wasn't until he saw what was written on the sign hanging unbeknownst to May, that he finally _did_ make a choice.

"Her!" he said, pointing directly at the small, bespectacled, teenaged girl with the sign on her back that read, _"Come Dock In My Harbor!"_

The pirate captain hastily unlocked the cage door, allowing his escort to rush in and grab a very surprised May from behind and lift her off her feet.

The chances were already laughable that this move of defiance would have actually worked, but she didn't think that she would have been picked out, and so soon. Surely there were comlier girls than her. What was the deciding factor?

"Wait! See? I _knew_ this wasn't going to work!" May yelled as she left the brig.

"No! Wait! I'm no good for you. I know how to read and write. Smart girls will only bring out your deep-seated insecurities! Why do you want me anyway? I'm not even _tall_!" she continued, squirming in a panic.

The Frenchman gave an eager chuckle. "Do not fret so, mon petite. You may be ze runt of the litter, but you'll be my bitch, soon enough."

While she was struggled, May heard the sound of paper being crumpled. A slightly crushed sheet of paper floated to the floor by her feet.

Petit-Crockaire bent down to retrieve the sheet, and then held it up for May to see. She made out the words written in hurried boldface. It wasn't hard to figure out how it got there.

May's heart first sank from the betrayal, and then burned for vengeance, as she was carried up the stairs leading out of the hold, followed by her would-be paramour, to the sound of three devious sisters singing La Marseilles and waving farewell.

All May could do was vent her last words before being carried out of the room.

" _You BITCHES!"_


	8. Chapter 8

Lois opened the door to the prison car gingerly, almost as if she didn't want to disturb the occupants within. When she saw Nate sitting on the cold floor next to her sleeping sons in a cage, the feelings of elation upon seeing them was neutralized by her depression on seeing them in such a state.

With the door rolling back to close, Lois called out Nate's name timidly. He jumped to his feet to meet her at the bars when he saw who it was.

"Lois, are you alright?" he asked while he held her slim hands through the iron bars. "What happened? We didn't see you for hours."

"I'm okay, Nate. I'm fine. How are the kids? Are _they_ okay?"

"They're fine," Nate replied with certainty. "Oh, I missed you so much. What did that man want with you?"

"He's a bounty hunter my dad hired to bring me back home. He said that Dad paid him a lot of money to bring all of us home, so he can hang you and the kids, baby."

"I know. He told us."

Lois hesitated a moment, not confident that she knew how to broach this additional bad news. "Not everything, Nate. That bounty hunter wants to…marry me, after you all die."

"What?" He was surprised that he didn't think The Hunter's treachery could plumb so far down.

"I know, but I told him that I wouldn't," Lois explained. "He threatened that I might die with you, but I don't care. I love you and I'll be by your side, Nate. Always."

His face and heart turned into blank stone. It had to be done.

"No."

"No? No, what?" she asked incredulously.

"You have to let us go, Lois," he said sadly.

She couldn't understand what he just said, and since this was Nate she was talking to, that was saying something. But if that was the case, why was her stomach twisting with a life of its own, in fear.

The fear, being of _loss_ , that radiated from his wife like heat. Nate knew he was doing all of this to save her, and he had to turn into steel to get through this without weakening and ultimately killing her.

"No," she told him in a near-whisper. The blow of losing her family took too much out of her already. "I told you that I'm gonna stay by you and the boys- _Oh, God! I forgot about May!_ " she suddenly remembered.

"Well, I guess that means that you and May will be safe, then," Nate reasoned with a hopeful tone.

"What do you mean?"

"The boys and I decided that we're going to let you go, Lois. It's the only way you'll be safe. It's the only way we can be sure."

"But I don't want to go back to my father, Nate. I want to be with you."

"I didn't say we we're gonna let you go back to your father," he said sternly. "I said we we're gonna let you go."

"I don't understand."

"I want you to _live_ , Lois. If it means finding someone new, then, we won't mind. As long as you're safe."

"But, Nate…"

"Listen to me, Lois. I haven't been known to throw my weight around, unless I'm trying on a pair of pants. And I tried to never make a hard way for you or the kids, but as the man of this family, I'm tellin' you right now that I want you to _go_."

Whatever Lois thought of saying as a rebuttal, died before her husband's sincerity.

"I don't care how much you may cry, or how much you _will_ see _me_ cry, you better do as I say, because if you don't, I'll _hate_ you. I'll hate you while you're swingin' next to me, because I want you to be free, and I'll be _damned_ if I take that away from you."

It was too much. The loss that was to come. The finality of his choice in the face of such a harsh and loveless world, gave birth to a feeling of pride so strong, it cracked Lois in two, and she deeply wept.

"Now…now don't cry, darlin'. Do you see? You gave up so much for me and the children. You deserve to be happy again. Let's face it. You weren't born to live like we do. That's just fate, I guess. But you made us _happy_ , Lois, so this is the least we can do for you."

In her mind, she didn't deserve such an out. Skin was going to save her and doom her family. Skin was going to reward her for doing nothing, and damn others into doing everything until they dropped.

She hated the _politics_ of her skin, hated being in it, now. It only served as a crucible that boiled down the injustice into its purest form. But she could still have some say in this tragedy. Show her solidarity to her husband in the end.

Indignant anger made her grab the bars in front of Nate's face and bring her face up close to his.

"You listen to me, you sanctimonious asshole," she said hotly. "I didn't give up what I did for nothing. I did it because I _love_ you. Yes, there are times when I wish I could be the woman I was, and enjoy the life I had, and I still may, but that's _my_ cross to bear. That's something _I'll_ have to deal with. Don't you think I could have left you if I wanted to? I love you and the children, and no amount of wishing for the good old days will ever _change_ that."

Her determination made his chest swell. It was that bravery and love of life, as well as her beauty, that made him want her for his own. Nate wished to Heaven he could take them all away from this slow-stewing nightmare. He wished this whole damn world was different, and their love wasn't such a stigma. But wishes were nothing, and steel wasn't enough. He had to become as _ice_.

"I don't care," he lied bitterly. "I still don't want you to die, so you do whatever you want to do when we reach Virginia, but you better not hang around when _we_ do. _Do you understand me?_ " He then turned his broad back to her, waiting for her to leave.

Lois, tearing up again, couldn't take it anymore. She couldn't stop her father's plan on her own, and Nate just shut her out, just when she wanted to prove her devotion to him in the most crucial and most critical of times.

He just wouldn't buckle, wouldn't _move_. She could beg, but time was running out, and the loveless creatures of logic and sacrifice tore her heart out by the roots so thoroughly, she thought it was a miracle that she could still stand.

"Damn you, Nate Griffin! _Damn you!_ " she cursed in teary devastation behind him, as she left the car and her pitiable family, not wanting to look back at things that reminded her of just how helpless mercy was in the world.

* * *

 

Captain Petit-Crockaire's two goons dumped May easily onto the plush, wide bed, and then marched out of the captain's quarters.

May knew she couldn't leave the cabin just yet, with the possibility that the door was guarded, so she looked around to get the lay of the place and maybe find a good spot to hide.

One thing she noticed right off the bat were the number of mirrors surrounding the bed. Not just the large one that was strangely hung _over_ the bed, which to May, seemed rather dangerous, but the other cheval mirrors positioned in different places and angles around the bed's periphery.

Either this Frenchie was a true egomaniac, she figured, or he _really_ likes to critique his own performance in the sack.

The door opened again, cutting her train of thought short in a panic when the captain sauntered in, and pushed the door closed.

With a click of the lock, May rolled over the surface of the bed and landed on the other side. The tactic was obvious and clear. Keep as much distance and as many obstacles between the captain and herself.

Luckily, Petit-Crockaire was in a playful mood and didn't simply chase her down from where he was leaning against the door. He simply watched her dart and zip from one dubious hiding place to another, with her eyes always watching him and his bemused and wolfish smile.

"Please, don't run. You'll only get raped tired," he advised as he moved away from the door and slowly homed in on her position, behind an ornate chair next to his equally large and ornate writing desk.

Looking at a nearby mirror, May could see what was turning him on. The sight of a scared, helpless black girl few people would actually miss.

"Uh, I really shouldn't be here," she blurted out.

"Oh? And why not, my little pigeon?"

"I, uh, _told_ you already. I read a lot. I'm-I'm _smart_. Doesn't that kill all of your expectations about black women?"

The Frenchman stopped his stalking to both explain, and to May's alarm, undress. "Au contraire! Do you know a Madam Glenda Quagmire?"

That was totally unexpected. What did that troublesome woman have to do with any of this?

"Why?" she asked.

"She runs a fascinating whorehouse in Rhode Island, and ze last time I was zere, she told me zhat exotic girls were all ze rage. Particularly, well-read black girls," he told her while looking her up and down. "Eet zeems zhat she was right."

May, who had hunkered down behind the large chair, stood up fully in curiosity at that comment.

"Whachu talkin' bout?" she asked, before realizing how much more vulnerable she was for standing, and how much more exposed he was. She ducked back down to eye level to watch him.

He nodded in the direction of his bed. Her manuscript lay there were it fell from her during her roll across it.

"Zhat's not mine," he said smugly.

"You think it's _mine_?" she asked, nervously giggling.

"Oui. And I told Madam Quagmire zhat I happen to like exotic girls. A lot," he said, resuming his patient stalk.

May nervously giggled as he started to close the distance. "Exotic? There's nothing remotely erotic, I mean, _exotic_ about...lil' ol' me! Plain as porridge! That's what they call me!"

"And yet, you are trying to write ze book. You are wearing a pair of spectacles, and you claim that you can read, too."

"I didn't say I could read _French_!" May amended.

The captain ignored her. "Zhat means you are zomehow educated...and zhat's as exotic as eet _gets_!"

He reached out and pulled the chair over, exposing May, who instinctively flew around to one side of the desk before he could grab her.

"You're quick," he purred. "I _like_ zhis game. Don't worry about the noise when I finally catch you. My guard iz used to eet."

He moved to the desk, as well, but every time he tried to go around it to pursue, she would maintain enough speed to keep herself equidistant from him, whether he moved left or right.

The captain decided to try it one more time, moving as fast as he could in direct pursuit, and May, to her horror, found that he closed the gap and was close enough to reach out and catch her.

Desperately, she tried to increase the distance by changing course and running out where there was more room. Unfortunately, she ran _back_ to where she had landed on the other side of the bed after her initial flight from him.

Petit-Crockaire gave a hungry laugh as he prepared to corner her between the mirrors and the bedside, but she simply repeated her maneuver, rolling back to where she was when she was first brought to his room.

But, in her haste, she had forgotten to retrieve her manuscript and it still lie in the center of the bed.

Rather that be upset over her surprising nimbleness, he smiled lasciviously at all of her scrambling. The door was locked, and she'd soon tire herself out in his web, and then the spider would crawl over and claim his prize.

"Don't worry, mon petite," the captain calmly said as he began to climb across the bed. "I like zhem with a little know-how. Just relax, and I'll teach you all about sums with _my_ yardstick."

At first, May nervously watched him approach, and then after a chance peek at the pirate's so-called "yardstick", she couldn't help but take some of the wind out of his sails with a dismissive comment on it.

"Starting the lesson with _fractions_ , are we?" she cockily joked.

The brigand, stung by the dig, growled, "Why, you little-" Then he stopped and glanced over at her vulnerable document with a vengeful eye.

Reaching over, he grabbed the script and opened it from the middle, watching her clearly worried reaction.

"Let's see how smart your little mouth iz when you see your book torn to shreds," he said with a cruel laugh.

"Don't! Please, it's my life's work!"

"Now, _I_ am." He looked down at the pages he was about to rip out.

The second he absently read some of the badly, amateurish text, a luminescent agony blossomed in the center of his consciouness, as though he had been shot in the head.

He cried out and collapsed on the covers in a twitching heap, and then he lay still.

May stood as stuned as the captain from the reaction he had with the book, and then a sad enlightenment took over.

"They were right," she said to herself in a morose monotone. "It…it… _is_ that bad. I thought I had something great, something _wonderful_. I thought I…"

The fact that, mere moments ago, she was a gnat's wing from losing her innocence, didn't faze her as badly as this revelation. All the jokes, all the teasing…it was completely justified.

May walked over to the chair she hid behind earlier, righted it, and sat in a funk. No one was going to read her book now. All of that time she spent on it was for naught, and the cold water of truth made her finally see the book for what it truly was.

Juvenile, aimless musings and rambling narrative that covered whole chapters and said nothing. Pretentious imaginings more suitable for psychoanalysts to pick apart, than for the average reader to enjoy.

Even the half-remembered laughter of classmates, bullies and family members punctuated the truth, and she could blame none of them.

Add to the fact that it was so bad written, as to become a _weapon_ to all who read it, was the final nail in the coffin.

 _Coffin_.

_The dead. The dying. And the not-yet-dying._

_Her people down below._

And with that moment of dark clarity, she was brought back into the captain's quarters and the situation she had left, before she stepped out to have her one-woman pity party.

In her heart of hearts, she knew that she was an amateur who jumped into the water with both feet, and that was being _gracious._ In her defense, she wanted to believe that her travails as an ex-slave would give her carte blanche to be undisciplined, and the world would take pity and accept her work. The world wasted no time in showing her otherwise.

' _Lesson learned, I guess,'_ she thought soberly.

Her people were _still_ at the pirates' mercy, however, but then she realized she had done the truly startling. Subduing their leader handily. With a book.

She ran back to the bed and grabbed her maunscript with awakened eyes.

"I guess my book _does_ suck as reading material, but I bet it makes a hell of a WMD," she said to herself. Looking over at the downed captain, she mused, "Now, how do I get out of here?"

Thinking back, she remembered that he had mentioned a guard outside. With an evil grin creasing her face, May ran back to the desk and gathered a pen, ink, and a sheet of paper.

"Well, if I'm gonna be a serious writer, there's no time like the present," she said, as she put pen to paper and came up with a short masterpiece.

The single guard who stood outside the locked cabin door knew he heard the ruckus going on inside, but past experience listening to the captain's romantic conquests taught him not to be too alarmed about it.

In fact, he was already fantasizing about what he was going to do with the black he was going to choose. Someone young, strong and flexible to match his prowess in bed.

He looked down between his legs to watch his reaction to all of that thinking, when something else caught his attention there.

A small, folded note slipped out from under the cabin door and rested by his big feet. He picked it up and unfolded it. What he read was surprising, to say the least.

 _To my big, brave, strong man. I confess that I'm not the man I present myself to be. Having this girl brought to my cabin was just a pretense. I really like men, and_ you _, in particular. If you feel as I do, please come into my quarters...and enter my cabin, too._

_Love, The Captain_

The guard took a moment to digest this, and then made his decision.

The cabin door opened slowly. The guard peered inside and found the great room dark, with only partial illumination from the moonlight coming through the grandiose windows within.

"Captain?" the guard whispered, but no one replied.

As the door opened wider and allowed the big man to enter, May, hiding behind the door, silently slipped out from behind it, and snuck out of the room before the big, slow-moving door closed all the way shut on its own.

"Have fun, Betty," she whispered to herself as she tiptoed away.

A few curious and therefore unconscious guards later, May reached the hatch on the main deck that led to the gunnery deck, and below that, the hold. With most of the crew asleep and she armed with her manuscript, May knew she'd face little resistance on her way back to Dewey and the others.

The hatch was already opened to allow ventilation, so she crept down the stairs, stopping occasionally whenever they creaked, but her passage alerted no one in the end.

A worrying thought pricked at May's mind as she looked around the gunnery deck, making sure that none of the gunners, still sleeping in their hammocks, stirred.

If she managed to free her compatriots, what was to stop these brigands from recapturing them? As grim as it sounded to her, the pirates would have to be taken out of the game.

She thought about tearing pages out of her book and placing them on each cannon, or on the gunners before they left, that way the pirates would see the pages, read them by accident, and be incapacitated.

But May soon dismissed that notion. In the frantic race to get to station, none of them would even notice the sheets until after the fact, when the Ebots, Dewey and herself were either recaptured and put under serious guard, or they all found peace in the deep bosom of the Atlantic from cannon fire.

May then looked around again, after that thought.

Cannon fire. Fire. _Explosions_.

Being seized by a brainstorm, May gritted her teeth against such a dangerous course of action and walked _deeper_ into the deck while the men slept.

She remembered reading a cast-off dime novel about a privateer and his crew holding off a foreign navy's fleet while escaping. The narrative explained the properties of the strange black powder that made the cannons work and how dangerous it was, if mishandled.

Creeping past the inert cannons, May spotted in the gloom what she was looking for. Against the far wall was stacked barrel after packed barrel full of high-grade gunpowder.

Taking out her knife from under her skirt, she approached one of the higher stacked barrels, stuck the knifepoint into its bung, and quietly worked the stopper out. A stream of powder ran free and flowed to the floor.

Next, May snuck over to one gunner's hammock and found a mug next to his shoes.

And upon seeing the footwear, May had _another_ crazy idea.

* * *

 

Dewey sat in the sweaty muddle of men in the cage, feeling as though he were the last man on Earth.

He ignored the whispered calls, waves, and kisses thrown his way from the treacherous triplets across the hold from him. All he knew was that the girl he fell in love with was, by now, undone. Her innocence lost.

In a better world, he wished that she would grant him the honor of being her very first love. Now, he sadly resolved that he would be there for her, for however long they had before they were sold off.

He despondently lifted his head upon hearing the two guards stand from their chairs and walk up the stairs under the prompting of someone calling them both from above.

Both men ascended, the sound of pages being turned was faintly heard, and then the two men crashed back down and crumpled senselessly by the foot of the stairs.

The racket was loud enough to rouse everyone in both cages. People wondered if it was a mutiny, or just a drunkard's dispute. No one would have believed seeing little May Griffin walking triumphantly in the guards' wake.

She went over to the women's cage, pulling out a large ring of keys that once sat on the pirate captain's desk, his master set. After several hurried tries, she found the right one and unlocked the door.

After the crowd of women was released, the triplets stood nearby, watching May strangely. She didn't behave like anyone they had known before. A clear example of which was that she didn't look like she was holding an immediate grudge.

One stepped forward to May. If there was a disagreement, she wanted the fury to fall on her first, to protect her sisters.

"What happened in there? How did you get back here so fast?" she asked.

May simply glanced over at the girl. "Guess I wore him out," she replied cockily.

May ran over to the other cage and freed the prisoners there. She waited for Dewey to come out of the stampede, and she was rewarded with a crushing hug from the teenager, when he shot out of the crowd, like a breeching dolphin.

May held him and placed her head close to his chest to feel his heartbeat. It was too close. For everything, it was too close.

"How in the world did you escape from the captain, cher?" Dewey asked in her hair.

"Well, you know the saying, 'All's well, that ends well?'"

"Yeah."

"Well, let's just say that hopefully, someone's _all_ up in his _end_ ," she joked.

This time it was May who broke the contact and had Dewey wishing secretly for more. She turned to the others for quiet and motioned for them to huddle around her.

To those who were farthest from the center, they could only hear from May a series of sibilant half-words and whispery, pseudo-conversational tones.

A worker turned to another and asked if he knew what she was saying. The worker he had asked, answered back with that same series of sounds.

* * *

 

Up the stairs, from the hold, to the main deck, the workers crept slowly and quietly. The men led, carrying torn sheets of May's manuscript to hold up and dispatch any pirates they ran across. The women, also armed, brought up the rear.

It was a strange feeling for most of them to stand on the main deck of a ship unmolested, but the multitude of alert eyes couldn't see anyone other than themselves on deck.

Smokestack took a studied look at the intricate, mechanized davits securing the steam longboats to the mothership, and after a minute or three, had roughly deduced how they worked.

He motioned to the men and women to quickly get in the boats while he operated the levers that would lower the boats down.

As passenger after passenger approached the craft, May stood on hand to collect every page a worker had on him or her, like a ticket taker, to prevent them from looking at the sheets accidentally during transit.

As she stuffed the sheets back into her book and the boats steadily filled, May saw Dewey coming over.

"I didn't know you were such a talented writer, to do that to people, cher," he complimented.

May gave a self-conscious half-smile and meekly replied, "Thanks, Dewey. Guess I'm just killing them softly with my words."

"Hey, Roberta Flack," Smokestack called to her. "Everybody's accounted for except us. You two get on board and I'll catch up."

May turned to Dewey. "You better get going. If he's going to still be up here, he's going to need me and my book."

"No way, cher. I'm not leaving you up here if those pirates come at the two of you. Let _me_ read your book, and you get in the boat, instead."

"No!" she blurted out. She couldn't bear the thought or the guilt of Dewey being harmed by her book if he ever got a hold of it. "I mean, I've got this one. You can play hero for me next time, I promise."

"Well…" he grumbled, but he complied and slowly walked over to one of the boats.

"I'll save a spot for you," he said before embarking.

"Thanks."

Then the bullets began scarring the decking, and Smokestack swore as he worked the controls through the gunfire.

"Get them out of here!" May ordered him in her fright, as she looked around for cover and found precious little by the side of the ship.

With a frantic tug of the release lever, the lines holding the boats up in the davits brought them down in almost a freefall. The craft hit the waters below in clumsy splashes.

"What about us?" Smokestack asked nervously as he and May dodged a few more shots. Then there was quiet as the pirates paused to reload.

May looked down at her document thoughtfully for a second or two, and then told him, "Stick your fingers in your ears!"

The engineer's expression darkened. "Well, same to _you_ , missy," he said in misconstrued indignation.

"No! No!" she cried out as she saw piratical hands finishing their loading with practiced speed. "I'm gonna read the book! Stick your fingers in your ears!"

Smokestack obeyed as May opened the book to a random page and read as loudly as she could. The effects were frighteningly immediate.

Pirates gritted their teeth against the pain that suddenly crawled into their heads. Torment threw off their aim, and bullets either hit the deck, or soared away to the sea. Blood began to trickle in thin lines from either their noses or their ears, as they stubbornly stood their ground, not knowing what this obvious houdou was doing, but also, not prepared to let such prize slaves go.

Eventually, however, all six buccaneers collapsed where they stood, twitching, deaf wretches to a man.

Smokestack removed his fingers from his ears when May gestured for him to do so, and looked over the railing at the longboats. Both boats were safe, but bobbing against the _Sea Cock_ , due to the chains of the davits still holding them.

"Come on, May," he told her. "We're gonna have to climb down."

May risked a look down and regretted it.

"I don't know," she said, trying to sound thoughtful and fighting her writhing stomach. Unless she had sufficient cover and a megaphone, she knew she couldn't keep up her literary assault before a lucky shot fell her.

She looked down over the boats again, so far away from her now. No way that she could simply jump down. The impact, either on the water, or on the boats and passengers would be probably be fatal.

Without warning, Smokestack grabbed May up by her collar like a kitten, and positioned her on his back.

"Hang on!" he yelled, as another wave of pirates came from rear hatches of the ship, brandishing pistols in a charge.

He gathered his broad, six-foot, five-inch frame, and leaped out to grab hold of one of the davit tethers. The chain arrested his forward momentum, causing his body to swing out, with a terrified May clutching the back of his uniform for dear life.

As bullets drilled the air around them, Smokestack gave a sigh of resignation for what he had to do, and loosened his iron grip on the chain, letting gravity accelerate the duo away from the dangerous deck.

As May fought to keep from puking, her savior grunted in pain, as the friction of link after link literally set his palms on fire.

The two of them landed unstedily onto the bow of one of the longboats. May scrambled on board, while tortured Smokestack plunged his ravaged hands into the cold sea.

The resultant cooling created a cloud of steam that rose and grew denser and denser, obscuring both boats and most of the _Sea Cock's_ waterline. The pirates above couldn't draw a bead on anything in the fog and decided against wasting ammunition.

As promised, Dewey had a tight spot for May waiting when she plopped her tired self down.

"Release lines," ordered Smokestack.

With the longboats free of their tethers and their pontoon steam engines stoked with coal fed by conveyer belts that ran through the hollow floats via a hand crank built in the boat's side, the craft surged smoothly out of the cloud and increased speed.

Passengers ducked their heads to avoid the occasional potshot that whizzed at them when they left their cover. Soon afterwards, the firing ceased and they continued their escape without incident.

One of the women found a spyglass in a small provisions chest and used it to scan the dark seas, looking for a safe place to head towards.

Her searching stopped in surprise when she saw, departing a few miles out, the gas-lit silhouette of the _Plymouth_ , heading due south.

"It's the _Plymouth_!" she yelled over the loud chop of the ocean and the steam engines' efforts. "We can catch up with it!"

With the collective hope that they would be rescued, the passengers of one boat threw a rope to the crew of the other, who tied it to their bow. With the other end of the line attached to the first boat's stern, the first set a course towards the horizon, guiding the second.

It was then that they heard the claxons going off in the night. _Sea Cock_ was on red alert.

Clad only in his blanket, Petit-Crockaire and his shirtless guard burst open the door leading to the main deck. More pirates had already arrived on deck and were too worked up to question why their captain was wrapped up in just a blanket.

"Zhey spurned our hospitality, mes amis!" he yelled in fury. "Sink zhem, now! I want zhem going down faster zhan an ugly girl on a mercy date!"

"Aye, aye!" his men cried in bloodlust.

The guard, emboldened by his comrades, stepped away from his captain, preparing to assist in the order, but was then suddenly stopped by the captain's gentle hand on his shoulder.

With an understanding look in the guard's eyes, the two returned to the captain's quarters and closed the door.

Not caring anymore if their shots reached the mark, pirates crowded the railings and began stitching the waters around the fugitives with lethal slugs, as the _Sea Cock_ came about and steamed after the two longboats.

The fugitives, in turn, cranked more coal into the small engines and kept a desperate bearing with the Plymouth, fighting against the ocean chop and their own mounting panic.

May kept her eyes glued to the _Sea Cock_ and judged her distance from them. It was depressingly closing.

"I hope we're far enough away from them!" May called out to Dewey.

"I hope so, too, 'cause we're _tryin'_ , cher!"

"Good! That way, they can use their cannons!" she said matter-of-factly.

" _What?"_

The gunnery crews, startled into action from the gunplay and prisoner escape, jumped out of their hammocks, hastily got dressed, and ran to their cannons to prepare them for firing.

"Hey, my feet feel funny," complained one of the gunners.

"Mine, too," chimed in another. "I wonder if we got sand in our shoes from the last time we went to the beach."

"Focus, people!" ordered their chief gunner.

Dismissing the shoes for a moment, the gunners did indeed focus back on their job, and prepared to light the cannons' fuses with their wicks.

As they lit the fuses, the customary amount of sparks fell to the floor. To the gun crews, in any other engagement, this would have been paid as much attention as seeing dust fly from an old table.

But now, a fiery smoke was seen coming from below the cannons. In a look of supreme terror, the gunners looked down to see a thin coating of smoldering gunpowder spread all over the floor leading back to the barrels.

In desperation, the gunners kicked and stomped at the low-creeping flames and smoke to put them out, as the first cannonade launched at the escapees.

Great towers of ocean blasted around the longboats as, fortunately, the gunners didn't have time to aim while trying to put out the lit gunpowder around them.

As seawater from the misfired shot and shell rained all over the boat people, Dewey asked May, with fear-tinged sarcasm, "Well? Is this what you wanted?"

May, crossing her fingers, gave him a worried look and yelled over the shooting, "Not yet!" The pursuing ship was gaining on them, bringing their cannons into a better position to fire.

* * *

 

Standing on the forward deck of the _Plymouth_ , the captain, some of the bridge crew, and some of the more adventurous passengers could hear the muffled pops of cannon fire off in the distance.

As one, people trained eyes and spyglasses at the seemingly one-sided battle, out beyond.

* * *

 

In the bowels of the _Sea Cock_ , the gunners were still stomping away at the dangerous ignition creeping all around them.

One of the gunners, the first to notice something in his shoes, kept tramping on the burning powder, until what he feared most, happened, but not in a way that was expected.

His shoes touched a low flame he tried to corner, sparked and sputtered into a smoky fire all their own, and then exploded.

Falling to the gritty floor with bloody stumps where his ankles terminated, he sat completely incapacitated with a look of shock frozen on his gasping face.

His fellow sailors looked around the deck in confusion for an unseen attacker while they continued to fight the lit powder with their feet.

It wasn't until they all started looking back at the victim's injuries that they pieced it all together, and realized, too late, that they, too, were caught in the same insidious trap, as, one by one, pairs of gunpowder filled shoes ignited, and then exploded, leaving crippled men howling in agony, and setting off a blazing chain reaction that fed and raced towards its source, the still-full barrels of gunpowder.

The acrid flash was the last thing the men ever saw.

A sudden, heart-stopping thunderclap flattened every man, woman, and child on both boats, as a shockwave was released from the most fearsome explosion any of them had ever witnessed.

With a detonation that could be seen from the _Plymouth_ , the blast blew the vessel apart amidships like a balloon, destroying decks and killing criminal personnel in a shrapnel and pressure wave hailstorm.

As a dazed May had fervently hoped, the gunners, in trying to stop her trap, only made the sabotage worse, and kept them too busy to blow her people out of the waters, until it was too late.

The two ruined halves of ship bobbed, rolled over like dying things, and quickly took on water. Stubborn fires, rising, black and choking smoke, and pressurized, white-gray steam from the ship's once hearty boiler, bled out into the moonlight sky in a captivating display of naval destruction.

From their position in the sea, the recovering escapees could watch in awe and gratitude, as the reviled pirate ship began to sink explosively into the sea.

They could make a run for the _Plymouth_ in a moment, they decided, as they navigated through the still-floating flotsam and body parts. Savoring a victory like this one was rare.

So this was what taking control of one's destiny felt like.

As the escapees cheered with blood trickling from ruptured eardrums, May gave Dewey a devil-may-care smile.

" _That's_ what I wanted," she said satisfied, but unable to hear herself.

"What?" Dewey asked.

"What?" May asked back.

"What?" he asked in frustration, again, which prompted a cacophony of "What's?" and "Huh's?" from the people on both boats.

After a few more minutes of savoring, and watching the once-proud cock figurehead saucily defying the waves one last time, as it finally sank into the vortex made by the ship's own weight, the passengers of the two longboats angled their craft away from the debris-choked area and the oncoming sharks.

As the two vessels chugged southward, moving further and further from the wreck of the _Sea Cock_ , their collective mood brightened, as the silhouette of the _Plymouth_ grew gradually broader and larger, its surface details and gas lights becoming more clearly seen, as the steamer was ponderously coming about.

May breathed relievedly for the oncoming rescue. As true as the longboats were, there was no way their tiny engines were going to take them all the way to New York. There was far more road ahead of her, and she was on a deadline.


	9. Chapter 9

May finished the last of bit of polishing in her assigned stateroom seconds before the ship's whistle blew.

"We're here!" she cheered as she bounced over to the cabin's porthole and scanned the landscape.

She had never seen Manhattan Island before and the sight before her was tantalizing. The mid-day Hudson River was crowded with steamers and traditional ships of sail, but the _Plymouth_ maneuvered herself handily in those waters. The warehouses, busy harbors, and other riverside buildings of the unfamiliar skyline charged her curiosity like nothing else.

And more importantly, it meant she was one step closer to being with her family, and a chance to help them escape.

She pulled her face from the porthole and turned to the occupied bed she ran past on her way to the window.

"Will you need anything else?" May asked to the nude couple that was concealed under their blanket.

"No, no, my dear," the man said. "You've been most helpful for us."

"Yes," said his wife. "You don't know how hard it is to have relations when you can only do it while others watch. You were able to do that _and_ keep the place tidy at the same time. Thank you for your professionalism."

"No problem," May told them modestly. "I'm just glad the captain decided to drop the trespassing charges after we gotten rid of those pirates, if we worked the rest of the passage off."

May went to the front door, wiped the doorknob with her dusting rag and opened it, telling them, "Well, it looks like I made it to where _I_ needed to go. You two have a great time in New York. I'll see you around."

When May left, the husband thought for a moment, then said to his wife, "Honey, how would you feel about the Brooklyn Bridge during rush hour?"

His wife giggled with anticipation.

After _Plymouth_ settled into her massive berth and the passengers disembarked, ready to regale friends, if not total strangers, with their harrowing tale of piracy on the high seas, May, Dewey and the entirety of the Ebots disembarked while the ship was being refueled, restocked, and given everything else that was necessary for the preparation of the vessel's next voyage out while in her home port.

Governor led the way along the docks of Lower Manhattan, visiting dock after dock, and studying one moored ship after another, until he finally slowed down and stopped at a dock berthing a large steamer that was beginning to show its age in rust spots and a few patches of barnacles on its otherwise still seaworthy hull.

"Here she is, people," he told his throng. " _Alexis_ , out of Canada. She was supposed to pick you all up when we docked in Boston, but she was late, so we had to reschedule."

A middle-aged woman dressed in a pea coat and cap leaned over the railing of the deck of her ship, looked down, and gave a jaunty wave at the old man.

"Hey, Alexis! What's the news about your baby?" he asked her.

"It'll be a while, Governor," she said while holding her belly lovingly. "But, you know what it's like, eh? You come into town for shore leave, you wind up three sheets to the wind, and the next thing you know, someone's boarding you from the aft end, loadin' his personal cargo into your hold, and you end up with a new addition to the crew. Anywho, is this the new cargo?

"Yep. I'll have them ready to board in a few minutes."

"Alright, now."

As the captain left to attend to her duties, Governor faced the crowd again. "Alright, everybody, it's time to get on board. She'll be shoving off soon for Heaven."

"What's going on, Governor?" May asked, as people began marching past her and going up the gangway.

"Don't worry," he replied. "We do this kind of thing all the time, both here and in Boston, when the _Alexis'_ men are on shore leave. Problem is, because she's behind schedule, I'm not sure the men will have much time for fun. With sex."

May shrugged at the news and craned her neck to look for Dewey in the embarking group. "Have you seen Dewey anywhere? We'll have to go soon."

Governor nodded off to the side with a wry smile. "I think I see him there. Looks like he wanted to see the girls off."

Near the gangway, May could see Dewey chatting it up with the triplets. She calmly walked over to them.

"May!" One said with some surprise, honestly not expecting her to be around. "Oh, hi! We were just saying our good-byes to Ball Bearing here, and saying that if he was ever in the Quebec area, he should look us up."

"Oh, really? That _would_ be nice," gushed May with hidden venom.

May turned to Dewey, giving him a calm yet dangerous stare as she spoke pleasantly to him. "Wouldn't that be nice, Ball _Tearing_?"

Dewey caught the threat of the supposed misnaming and meekly chuckled, playing along with her. "Yes, dear. That would be mighty fine, ma'am."

"Oh, good." She turned back to the sisters, smiling agreeably.

"Girls, I just wanted to say before you shoved off, that I know you didn't really mean all the nasty things you did. It was all for fun, that's all. I completely understand."

The triplets gave confused glances at each other. Didn't this runt know that they really _did_ mean all of those things, and if she were shipping off with them, they'd do even more?

With an inward shrug, they let the matter drop. It wasn't their fault if the girl was that naïve.

"Why, thank you, Fifth Wheel," One said with an almost visible smirk after using her insulting machine name. "You're right. It _was_ all just for fun, and let me say that we're really gonna miss you on our way to Canada. Where no one gets hung, or beaten within an inch of their lives. Where we don't have to worry about being sold off or raped, or our families torn apart."

She stopped her dissertation when she saw that it had the desired effect: May, looking rather disquieted by what she may still endure.

"Sucks to be you," One said matter-of-factly, giving May a tight, false smile.

Before anyone could reply to the statement, the ship's whistle boomed from above, putting a quicker pace in the boarders' steps.

"Hey, you guys better go before you miss your boat," May chided them good-naturedly, before giving each one of them a wholly unexpected hug good-bye.

As she left them, One leaned in close to her siblings.

"I really thought that pirate would really settle her ass. I guess she got lucky, or something, huh?" On her back, unbeknownst to her, was a note that read, _"Threesomes 'R' Us."_

"Yeah, well, we won't have to see her again." Two said. "But I am gonna miss that fine guy she was with." Behind her back was a note that read, _"Willing To Travel."_

"That's for sure. But cheer up, girls! We'll _all_ find the right man to use, sooner or later." Three told them. Dorsally, the note, _"Ask About Our Group Rates."_ was proudly displayed without her knowledge.

Buoyed by that notion, the girls happily ran scenarios in their scheming minds of group man-hunting and man-eating in the Canadian wilderness.

By the time May and Dewey reached Governor, Smokestack and Lens, some distance from the gangway, a crowd of men, comprised of white crewers from the _Alexis_ , began to form around the dismayed triplets as they were preparing to board.

"What's going on up there?" Lens asked the two kids.

May shrugged and said, "I don't know, but I think the girls and I really bonded back there."

She then turned to Governor and told him, "Oh, and I wouldn't worry about the crew not having any fun this time out."

Puzzled, Governor led the remaining three people away from the dock. Before catching up with them, May spared the triplets a parting wave.

"Bye-bye, skanks. It's been real. If it's a girl, name her after me," she said, smiling beatifically.

The small group continued to stroll southerly past the busy wharfs and through their neighborhoods for most of an hour or two, finding themselves, at last, in the sedate setting of Battery Park, walking along its broad riverside promenade.

Despite the tight, almost mathematical arrangement of the city, May found the sightseeing enjoyable. The variety and count of ships that came to rest or sail by, as well as the sheer number of people, both native and immigrant, that worked, yelled, talked and lived in such a cosmopolitan place, told her that New York City was a city that was going places and doing things, a city of the future, and one that made Quahog look positively sleepy in comparison.

Of all the buildings that she gawked at like a tourist, she locked her sights on one whose size and unique architecture made it stand out against the sedate setting of Battery Park.

The West Battery was a huge, circular fort that was built to defend New York during the War of 1812, but never saw any action. Over the years, it had acquired new names, among them, Castle Garden, along with its new role as a civic entertainment center. Now it was a promenade, a beer garden and restaurant, exhibition hall, opera house, and theater.

And a station for catching a coach out of the city, May hoped as she followed the rest of the group to the building's periphery. Yet, as she approached the building, something struck her as odd about the boarding of all of those workers on another boat, so soon after leaving the first.

"Why did you say that they were going to Heaven?" May asked the old man.

"What?"

"Back at the ship, you said that the other workers were going to Heaven," she expounded. "What did you mean by that?"

Governor gave a chuckle. "Because they are. Keep it under your hat, but Heaven is just code for Canada."

"Canada?" May mused. Then lightning struck and she stopped walking.

"Wait a minute. Code? All of those workers, they weren't just leaving, they're _escaping_. You're helping them out. Oh, my God! You're one of them, aren't you? You're a-"

Governor's speed belied his age as he reached out and placed a calloused hand firmly over her mouth. The move startled May for a moment, then she relaxed with understanding. Such swiftness and secrecy could only come from one of …them.

Dewey was confused by the scene, and asked May, after she calmed down, "What's goin' on, cher?"

May whispered to Dewey, but was so excited, she found it hard to speak without her voice trembling.

"He's one of _them_ , Dewey. He's an Operator. He's a Conductor for The Underground Railroad!"

Dewey's power of speech was stripped away and his extremities grew icy. He stood face to face with the very thing he had worked against. He could only imagine the unholy ratio his past brought about: for every soul saved by people like Governor, he knew he damned two.

Was this meeting a divine event? Was God finally delivering His punishment upon him? Part of him thought so, even hoped so. Living with the guilt was bad enough, but waiting for a punishment he knew was due, but couldn't anticipate, was equally torturous.

May looked into Dewey's face, mistaking his guilty fear for awe. "I know! I can't believe it, either. I wonder if Smokestack and Lens are Conductors, too."

Her answer came in the form of a soft shushing from Lens, partially concealing a proud smile.

Governor motioned for the two of them to follow the adults around the complex to its rear, which gave a commanding view of the river and the naval traffic.

Just up the way of the erstwhile fort was a small dock that held a waiting boat, a dinky, weather-beaten steamboat with a tattered quilt draped over the side of the bow, that was crewed by a single, anonymous man, and used as a ferry to Jersey City, New Jersey on the other side of the Hudson.

Governor led them onto the boat, and without a word of greeting from either of them, the captain went into the wheelhouse and piloted his puttering boat away from Manhattan.

"But why let us know who you are?" asked May, leaning against the side of the deck. "We won't breathe a word of this to anyone, but why take a chance, anyway? And why are we here?"

"Simply put, because we need people like you two," he explained. "We're stuck in a class war. The Haves against The Have-Nots, and we're as Have-Not as it gets. It's all about survival and the freedom to live and make your own destiny in this world."

"Our skin is not our sin," Smokestack added. "But we don't have to time to wait until white people wake up one morning and come to their senses. We have to act to save our people, now."

"And even though I told you two not to mess with those minstrels on the ship, we liked how you two handled yourselves with them," said Lens.

"As well as how you saved us all from those French pirates," Governor told May directly. "You really thought on your feet, and we need Conductors with that kind of spirit."

May couldn't do anything but smile uncomfortably while her cheeks and ears burned. Praise _this_ high was unheard of in her life, and she was ill equipped to handle it. Her humility was spared from more commendation when Governor saw how modest she was in hearing it. That kind of response made his decision to choose her all the clearer. Ego didn't rule her.

May perked up in thought and turned to Dewey excitedly.

"Wow! Think about it, Dewey. Someday, we might get to work alongside other Conductors, or maybe even become Stationmasters!"

"Who knows?" Governor added. "You might even get to see the greatest Conductor in the organization, H, herself."

May sighed with thoughts of hero-worship and adventure, as she imagined what their lives would be working for the shadowy organization of _The Railroad_ …

_The hidden, lamp-lit lobby of the Headquarters of The Underground Railroad was a constant mass of movement and activity. Men and women bustled about with paperwork, new disguises, or newer, concealable equipment._

_The wide chamber branched off into corridors that held map rooms, testing facilities, dormitories, commissaries, dressing rooms, a central mail facility, and other places that helped the members serve the cause._

_May and Dewey, gawking at the sights, followed Governor up a winding staircase to an office that dominated a balcony that overlooked everything in the lobby below._

_Opening the door, they saw an elderly black woman sitting expectantly behind a large desk. On the desk was a name plaque that simply read, "H"._

" _May, Dewey," she said to them, as they stood in awe of such a woman. "Let's put it on."_

_The two teens were perplexed by the request._

" _Put what on?" they both asked._

_With a faint smile, Harriet Tubman, or Aitch, said, "The best suit you'll ever wear…"_

_The duo was then brought to one of the agency's dressing rooms, where they picked among the patched-up, cast-off clothes field slaves and the poor would wear._

" _You'll dress only in attire specially sanctioned by Railroad Special Services," Aitch instructed._

_May and Dewey were then each given a card that had their cover name written on it. May's said, "Rufus", and Dewey's said, "Sissy". They promptly exchanged them with each other._

" _You'll conform to the identities we give you. Meet where we tell you, help who we tell you."_

_In a distant city, on assignment, the two teens, dressed as field hands, were seen by a white man, who then scratched his head. In his eyes, they both look vaguely identical._

" _You'll not stand out in any way, because your entire image has been stereotyped to leave no lasting memory with any white folks you encounter. You're property, recognizable only as cheap slave labor and dismissed just as quickly. Socially, you don't exist;_ even _when you were born."_

" _Liberty is your name. Defiance, your native tongue. You're no longer screwed by the System. You're above the System. Over it. Beyond it._

" _We're "them." We're "they.""_

" _We are the Men Who Are Black."_

_In the lobby, May and Dewey took the time to check the feel and fit of their new clothes._

_May wore a ruffled, high-collared, black and violet satin dress with a feathered, broad brimmed hat set on a coquettish angle, and Dewey sported a tailored black suit that set off the gold pocket watch he casually wore._

_Slipping on a pair of extremely opaque, smoked glass spectacles in place of her needed ones, May affected a self-satisfied pose._

" _You know the difference between you and me?" she asked Dewey, cockily, and then asked again in a more worrying tone. "Seriously, do you know? 'Cause I can't see a damn thing out of these glasses!"  
_

"That would be so cool," May sighed happily. "Maybe after I help get my family back, I'll think about asking them if I can join."

"Huh?" asked Governor, taken aback.

"Yeah, I just can't up and join, just like that. I have to rescue my family from Virginia first. That's why me and Dewey stowed away."

"Oh!" Governor said, understanding. "I thought you two were running away from your folks and eloping, or something." He gave the swiftest of glances to his two compatriots. They understood.

"Well, that does explain a lot. I guess we can't stop you from looking for your folks, can we? That's just as important as what _we_ do," Governor conceded as he pulled out of his coat pocket something that looked like a miniature street lamp, a long, metal tube with a tiny lantern sitting on top. He held it up to the teens' faces.

While neither youngster noticed Lens and Smokestack coming up from behind, Governor flicked a switch on the gripped base of the tube, igniting a small portion of flash powder in the center of the lantern. The kids looked confused.

"What's that?" May asked.

However bright the light shined from the contraption in Governor's hand, it was easily outshone by the world around the teens, as the sunlight grew brighter, sounds grew dimmer, and their muscles grew more and more relaxed, until their bodies eventually crashed to the deck in a heavily drugged stupor.

"A distraction," Governor replied regretfully as he stood over their bodies, a soporific dart in both of their backs.

* * *

 

May awoke to the feeling of someone nudging her, and the hoots of ship whistles. Slowly sitting up, she saw Dewey kneeling by her, rubbing the sleep from his own eyes and trying to reorient himself with the world.

"Wake up, May. We're at Grandma's" he quipped with a groan.

It was damp and hard, wherever they were, and May could smell the faint scent of beer, urine and low tide.

Forcing herself into full consciousness, she idly wondered if she dreamt those last moments with Governor. With a cautious look around, she saw that they awoke in an alley.

Dewey cautiously walked to the mouth of the passage and peeked out. Outside, and as far as he could see, was what he saw before the boat trip, wharfs, harbors and ships coming and going along the Hudson.

He walked further out and looked across the river from between two small, berthed ships. On the coastal side of the landmass beyond, there were more harbors, larger buildings and taller spires, and there at the farthest end, was the strange round building he remembered seeing before he and May blacked out. Then he knew.

Dewey went back into the alley and knelt beside her. "I think we're in Jersey, cher," he reported.

"Good. We're on our way, then," she said. "We just need to find a way out of New Jersey."

Then she noticed two things. The first was a note pinned to her dress. She removed the letter while Dewey watched her.

"What's it say?" he asked.

"We'll be here when you're ready," she read. Then she saw something on the other side of the paper in the daylight. Turning it over, she saw a crude map drawn on the back, with an X marking a spot that read, "You Are Here," and an arrow pointing southwesterly to the far side of the paper, which read, "To Philly and beyond."

"It's a map leading out of the city," May said. Then she remembered the second thing she noticed. "And what am I _sitting_ on?"

Whatever it was, it was small, rotund and uncomfortably hard.

May leaned over and felt around for the object that was under her. It was a tiny bag. Picking it up, she opened it and gasped.

"Dewey! Silver Dollars!" she whispered. "There must be about ten dollars in here! They must have given this to us to help us on our way."

"Then all we need now is a compass," Dewey said exuberantly. "And a horse."

"A horse?"

"Yep. We can't possibly get where we need to get to without one. It'll take too long," he said as a matter of fact. "Hmm, let's see. Best place to get one would be at a livery. We got money, now. We should able to afford one."

"Sounds good," said May as she stood up and brushed herself off.

Because Jersey City was a major port of entry for the state, it also catered to the influx of passenger ships that docked there, as well, so, it didn't take too long to find a decent livery stable in the surrounding neighborhoods near the port.

The whole affair was as small business as it got, a diminutive stable and harness room, with a lean-to for wagons on the side of the building, topped with a combination storage room and office upstairs.

Adorned with the sign over the stable entrance that read, "Livery Stable. Proprietor Roderick Polk," May and Dewey hoped that the owner was a reasonable man, because neither one was much of a negotiator, and, not knowing their way around town, couldn't afford to waste time looking for others, unless forced.

Reaching the office via the building's outdoor staircase, they entered from its elevated landing. Inside, a balding white man, sitting by his table covered with receipts, was holding a large, folded sheet of paper, which displayed a full picture of a horse in profile which he stared at lustfully.

At the far end of the room, a young clerk was opening a bag of feed and was preparing to lift and dump the bag into the feed chute in the corner. On the wall behind him, was a poster of the various costs to buy, hire or sell horses, as well as their housing expense. All were well below the ten-dollar range.

Seeing that they were black, however, cooled the man's temperament, and his practiced salesman demeanor died stillborn.

"What do you want?" he asked with rude indifference, putting the horse poster down on the desk. "You buyin' or rentin'?"

"Rent, please," Dewey said, after it was decided that a man making the transaction might smooth things with the conservative owner.

"Rentals are ten dollars a day. No exceptions." He hadn't even batted an eye.

Whatever role May was to play during the transaction, she decided not to play it. Instead, she piped up and pointed at the sales paper by the clerk, saying, "But it says there that they're _two_ dollars a day."

The owner glared at Dewey. "Better tell Little Miss College there that _I_ said it's ten dollars. If you got it, let's see it. If not, keep walkin'."

With a sad glance to May, Dewey shook his head. There was nothing to be gained by trying to force the issue with the narrow-minded man, and time was of the essence.

"That's alright, Dewey," May placated. "We'll just find another one. I think I saw that one place, National. We'll just go there. Go like a pro."

The owner snorted. "Yeah, good luck with that, girly. Never saw one of you people with more than ten _cents_ in your pocket, much less ten dollars. Now listen to my callous laughter as you walk away."

As they walked out of the office to the sound of callous laughter, they could also hear someone singing below. They couldn't recognize the song, but the baritone voice was lovely, and so, just to get their minds off of the proprietor, they decided to investigate.

Reaching the entrance of the stables, they were suddenly approached by Patrick Steward, holding a check.

"On behalf of National, we thank you for your ringing endorsement. Please, accept this check with our undying gratitude." he said, giving the check to May, and then walking off.

"Who was that?" asked Dewey.

"Nevermind," May answered back.

Moving silently into the dim stable, they looked inside to marvel at a beautiful white horse, singing an aria in his stall.

They favored the animal a quiet applause once he finished, and the singer bowed his head humbly, happy to have an audience.

"Thank you, thank you," the horse replied in a clipped English accent. "That was, of course, _La donna e mobile,_ from Guiseppi Verdi's _Rigoletto_. If you like, I could sing something from Mozart's _The Magic Flute_ that I rather like."

As much as it might have been interesting to see and hear a gelding singing opera, May had to politely stop him from going further.

"Sorry to take up your time," she said. "Lovely singing voice, by the way, but, I was wondering if you would be willing to take us, at least part of the way, to Lynchtree, Virginia?"

The horse cocked his large head and pondered it for a moment, then said. "Hmm, yes. Fairly close to Killingsberg and Stoolbend. I pull a coach on occasion, and there's a stage there that's well known for its blend of locally grown feed. Most exquisite."

Dewey immediately perked up. "Hot damn! You said, "yes!" Does that mean you'll take us, brah?"

The animal stood his full height with indignity. "Absolutely not! I said, "yes", to indicate that I understood where the young woman wanted me to go. _Not_ that I would go there. I trust you tried to come to some sort of agreement with the so-called Horse Whisperer upstairs?"

"He slammed the door in our faces," May told him. "Before he slammed the _door_ in our faces," May said.

"Well, that's settled, then."

"Aww, c'mon, brah!" Dewey begged. "We really need to get there as soon as we can. Her family needs us bad! They could die if we don't get there in time. Please. You said that you're a coach horse, you're fast and I bet you know every shortcut there is."

The quadruped snorted snobbishly. "That _is_ true, and a testament to your obvious good taste that you both would choose me for this otherwise highly illegal and foolhardy venture."

"Then come with us. We need your help, please," May entreated.

"Human, you do understand that I'm worth _far_ more than you, and cannot be missed," the horse condescended to her.

"I'm fairly aware," May conceded coolly.

The horse raised his head proudly. "My forebears pulled the coaches of royalty and bore generals on their backs. I am one of the swiftest animal on foot, and I know every road, pass, and highway in this great land. It's my seniority that has granted me a place of honor in the rear of every team I've been attached to, so that I may take my ease, which is the privilege of my station there."

"I'm happy for you," she said.

"So you must come to the conclusion that I cannot take you anywhere. That would be tantamount-"

"Hold on!" May suddenly shouted, quickly scribbling the word _tantamount_ on a produced piece of paper. "Mom always said that if I ever ran into a word I didn't know yet, to jot it down, so I can learn it later. Wouldn't be much of a writer if I didn't. O-u-n-t?"

"O-u-n-t," the horse confirmed dryly.

"Okay, go on."

"As I was saying," the horse continued, trying to compose himself from the interruption. "It would be tantamount to theft of private property, something I'm sure you are well aware of."

That comment gave May pause. "Wait a minute. What are you saying? That I'm private property, or that I steal other _people's_?

The horse, sighing in annoyance, said, "I'm sure you can figure that out for yourself, Human. In the meantime, kindly leave me in peace."

May began to feel tired and depressed. She knew it wasn't going to be easy, but having to joust with this stuffy nag, after just dealing with his keeper, truly opened the vista of vexations to come, in her mind's eye. There was just no time for this.

"Alright, horse, I understand," she said evenly. "We can't make you take us anywhere. Well, actually, we probably could, but then you'd make such a fuss, we'd get caught and that wouldn't help us."

"Most wise of you."

"I will say this, though. They put an old horse like you in the back of your team. _For now_. I hope you serve your owners well, because it looks like there's no other place in that team to go but _out_ , and that fancy heritage of yours won't matter if you've got nothing else to offer anyone. And _that's_ something I'm very well aware of."

"Meaning what?" the horse asked indignantly.

" _Meaning_ ," Dewey chimed in. "That you should help people when you're at your highest, brah, 'cause you never know when you'll find yourself at your lowest. Thanks for your time."

May and Dewey then quietly snuck back out of the stables, leaving the horse to his thoughts among his equine brethren. He crossly knelt down in his stall for a nap.

"Humph! My lowest…" he scoffed bitterly. He then heard the creaking of the outside stairs, but decided not to stand to investigate. He knew who it was and, so, didn't react to it.

The livery company's boss and his assistant casually entered the stable, stopping when they were near the horse's stall.

"Did you hear anything in here, Coleman?" the bald owner asked, after lighting a pipe and taking a deep draw from it.

"No, sir," said the clerk. "Quiet as a preacher's bedroom. So did you make a decision about what to do with Vincent?"

"Yep. I'm getting complaints from the customers. He's starting to lag behind the faster horses in his teams. I know he comes from good stock and all, but he cost me a lot of money in that gentlemen's bet I had last week with that other livery, and all of the farms I contacted already have enough breeding studs. So, tomorrow, we'll just take him over to the slaughterhouse and see how much we can get for him."

"Good thinking, boss," Coleman chuckled obsequiously. "With all his good breeding, he should, at least, taste good."

As they walked out of the stables and back to work upstairs, the unnoticed horse on the floor of the stall with the word, "Vincent" painted on the door, shivered in quiet terror, his dark eyes growing as wide as a working man's fists in shock of the easy disregard his owner had of his pedigree and his years of service, not to mention the casual regard they had for his impeding death and later consumption.

Some time later, after a less contentious visit to a shop on the edge of town, to buy food and supplies, the duo continued in a southerly direction on a highway leading out of the city.

Although slave catchers had no legal business harassing ex-slaves in New Jersey, the two teens knew that money could blind one to the law, as much as hate could.

The two eventually stopped by a crossroad to catch their breath and get their bearings.

"What does the compass say, cher?"

May held up the device, waited for it to take a reading, then said, "We're...heading too far west." She pointed off to another road. "If we keep heading in _this_ direction, we'll be good."

"All right, then," he said. "We'll take a rest now, and then press on while we got daylight."

"I just wish it wouldn't take so long getting there," May fretted. "It'll take days to reach Virginia, and we've got no idea how much of a head start that bounty hunter has on us."

"Actually, we got the drop on _him_ , cher."

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you think I wanted us to catch that steamer?" Dewey asked smugly. "I knew a boat would get us here a lot faster than a train would. _We_ got the head start, cher, not him. We'll make it. Don't you worry none."

The sudden sound of something crashing and moving in haste through the underbrush of the forests on either side of the highway, made the duo freeze in place and hold their breath for fear of detection.

"May, your knife," Dewey whispered to her, as he pulled out his sap and hid it behind his back in anticipation of a bounty man's ambush.

May raised her skirt and slipped the knife free of its tied-down sheath, nervously bringing it up into a ready and defensive position.

She looked into the green tranquility of the woods to help give her momentary peace of mind, and wondered if she would die here, as the sounds grew distressing louder and more rushed, like someone discovering them at the last minute, and closing in before they made a break for it.

They automatically stood side-to-side, mentally preparing for the coming capture, when the muffled sound of a trot coming to a crashing, clumsy end was heard ahead of them.

With a muscular burst of white bounding out of the dark green surroundings, the teens saw a white, talking, and singing coach horse, breathing hard and awkwardly walking up to them.

"What are you doing here, brah? I thought you didn't want to help me an' cher," Dewey said, absolutely delighted that it was him and not a bounty man.

The gelding, composing himself, turned to face May. "Yes, well. I wanted to say that I thought about what you said very carefully, and you made for a most bracing argument. Your words belie your station."

May, ignoring the possibly backhanded compliment with almost mock-gentility, replied, "Likewise."

The horse, realizing his last words were probably insulting, as well as ironic, since he, with a command for the English language, was now seen as useless horse flesh, embarrassingly conceded.

"Quite. In any event, I would like to offer you my speed and area knowledge in your endeavor to rescue your parents, if I may."

May, still in mock-gentility mode, told him, "We would be ever so delighted to have your company in our fellowship, Mister, uh…" She looked at him, expecting him to tell her his name.

The horse said sheepishly, "Vincent. My name is…Vincent."

May, softening and much more cordial now, smiled and greeted him, "Hi there, Vincent. My name is May, and this here is Deuteronomy."

Dewey, smiling, as well, said, "Call me Dewey, brah. Good to know you." He patted and stroked his neck comfortingly, then they both clambered onto his back; Dewey first, and then May holding him from behind.

"So tell me," May smugly asked Vincent. "What was it that really changed your mind? My eloquent speech, or the fact that they were fixing to cut you up into bait?"

Vincent gave a defeated sigh. "You truly have the gift of imagery."

May held up her head proudly. "I'm gonna be a _writer_ , y'know?"

Taking May's new compass bearing due southwest, Dewey steered Vincent along the well-worn path that led away from the center of the intersection, and they soon rode off.


	10. Chapter 10

Using Vincent's still-vaunted speed and his invaluable encyclopedic knowledge of the fastest coach routes and shortcuts, travel time was reduced significantly, so that in the space of over three weeks, May and Dewey had crossed the length of two states at a breakneck pace.

Freedom to travel openly was also a major factor in their favor. New Jersey, being a free state, allowed more or less untroubled passage through it. After crossing by ferry into Delaware, however, things became more complicated, and their travel protocols changed.

By following the conventions of most fugitives; staying in the forests by day, traveling roads by night, and keeping out of sight of most towns and villages on the way due south, they were better able to avoid possible slave catchers.

In spite of this, once they entered towns and villages, they could feel the social pressures bear down on them. More questions were asked of them, fewer amenities were open to them, and, while passing through public areas, more and more eyes were upon them.

A situation that grew upon their passing through Maryland, culminating into the harried and desperate exodus that the two teens and their horse were engaged in.

The town they left was a good two miles distant and Vincent managed to keep his lead against the three men riding hard to overtake them.

The clearing that marked the town's entrance gave way to a forested road that seemed endless.

Vincent's two passengers ducked instinctively at the booming sounds of gunfire behind them, as it seemed they had ever since they left town.

Dewey kept scanning ahead for somewhere to turn, or something to put as a barricade between them and their pursuers, but nothing could be offered, so he kicked his heels into Vincent again, hoping to inspire more speed out of him.

"I think we past a sign back there that said we left Maryland," May informed the both of them.

"Thank God! Did you see that lynch mob?" Dewey asked.

"Yeah, and those were the _women_!" May quipped. "That place is worse than Delaware!"

"The gall of some people!" Vincent huffed as he entered the conversation. "Here I am, trying to have a civil discussion on the films of Terence Hill, and all of the sudden, this! There's simply no reason at all for all of this ill will!"

A closer boom from small arms fire scared away any understanding Dewey might have had for Vincent's complaint.

"May, will you tell this fool that they don't _need_ to have a reason?"

Vincent bristled, despite their dangerous circumstances. "My good sir, I am not a foal. How can you say that you're good with horses, if you can't even tell how old I am?"

" _Fool_ , not foal! And I _am_ good with horses, just not good at getting 'em out of fights with armchair film critics!"

May took a break from hearing the two of them bicker to look behind her. The three men were now just yards away.

"Hey, Siskle and Ebert!" she said over the noise of the chase. "They're gaining!

"And I'm…I'm starting to tire, friends!" Vincent wheezed as he grimaced in sheer concentration to maintain his lagging lead.

As Dewey looked down at Vincent in concern, May looked up ahead and saw something, a side road, that she hoped would buy them some time.

"I've got an idea! Take that next turn up ahead and drop me off!" she told them.

Dewey was flummoxed. "What? They'll kill you, girl!"

"Just do it! I'll make it!" she insisted. "And keep riding up the road a little while after I get off, okay?"

"Alright!" He fretted on the inside, but maybe she did have a plan. He just wished _he_ were the one implementing it for her safety.

Dewey yanked the reins and steered Vincent hard to the left and into May's path, a long stretch of road, walled with forest.

The sudden change in direction took their pursuers by surprise, and they slowed down for the seconds needed for May to roughly dismount from the horse and stand in the middle of the road, as her two companions took off again down the thoroughfare. Then she took out her manuscript and opened it.

Despite Vincent's fatigue, May was rapidly shrinking in the distance, before Dewey stopped him and turned him around so he can see what was happening back up the road.

With the dust clearing, he could see the pursuers slow down in curiousity at what May was doing, and then surround her. Then abruptly, they begin falling from their horses and writhing in the dirt.

While she continued reading, she gingerly walked over to each one and unholstered their guns, throwing them, one-handed, into the nearby woods.

Once done, she stepped back to address her victims.

"Alright. Now I want you to get on your horses and ride back into town, or do you want me to read _Chapter 13_?"

With groans of fear and effort, the men clumsily mounted their rides in agony and galloped back up the road.

May breathed a sigh of relief and began proudly walking up the road, even as Dewey rode Vincent up to meet her.

Dismounting from Vincent, Dewey walked beside May, as they all hiked up the road in peace.

"Girl, how'd you do that?" Dewey asked, with a look that was part curiosity, part fear. "Smokestack told me you did the same thing to those pirates."

He pointed at her dusty, dog-eared script. "That paper. Is that part of your mojo? Were you castin' a gree-gree on all those men?"

May glanced up at Dewey. "Gree-gree? What's that?"

"A hex," he instructed. "A voodoo curse. Are you a hoodoo?"

Chuckling sadly, she said, "No, just a bad storyteller. That was my first attempt at a book. People told me it was bad, but my pride blinded me for so long that it took forever for me to see that."

"Makes a good weapon, though," he commented.

"I know, but I'm hoping that if we survive this, my time on the road might make a _better_ book. And don't worry, I certainly won't leave you two out when I write it."

"Aww, thanks, cher. Who knows? Maybe it'll be made into a play someday. I wonder who'd play me?"

Vincent snorted. "Someone more talented than the source material, surely."

"Aww, what do you know, Horse Meat?" Dewey scoffed.

"Only that whoever portrays _me_ will need the power of _two people_ to capture my presence and stature," Vincent said, lifting his head to its full height proudly.

Dewey gave a malicious smile. "True dat! Two actors in a horse suit! 'Cause when it come to playin' _you_ , they'd have to talk outta _both_ ends."

That caused May to chuckle. "Now, now fellas. I'm sure you'll _both_ shine when I write this thing. Not as bright as _me_ , but, y'know. Oh, and for the record, _My Name Is Nobody_ was a _way_ better Terence Hill film."

Dewey gave a cautious look at the surrounding woods and road. This was unfamiliar territory for all but him. He turned around to look back up the still empty road. He was thankful, but thinking.

"Don't mean to knock what you did with those men back there, cher, but I think we better get off the road. They may come back, and if we _are_ heading further and further south, I'd rather not be fightin' every slave catcher up and down this place."

"Agreed," Vincent replied soberly. "Besides, I smell water nearby and I am seriously parched."

"Then lead the way, Vince."

The horse took off in an eager trot for a few yards with May and Dewey keeping up in a slow jog, following him down a path off the road and into the concealing vegetation.

Guided by the sounds of Vincent crashing through the foliage and underbrush, the kids hiked deeper into the woods, trekking for almost fifteen minuets nonstop.

After moving through the semi-dark environs for so long, the two teens finally emerged from behind a tree-lined shore, and blinked at the sunlight reflecting from a breeze-caressed lake.

Vincent stepped around the small boulders that rested by the water, bowed his head and drank as his companions approached him and sat on some of the stones to rest.

"It's nice out here," May said, looking out onto the water.

"I don't think I've been here before," said Dewey. He looked over to the drinking horse. "How's the water, Vince?"

The horse lifted his head and gave a shuddering belch as an answer, then continued to gorge.

"Well said," Dewey commented.

"How long do we have to stay here?" May asked.

Dewey glanced at her. He could tell she eager to complete her mission. "Not long, cher. We'll be movin' on soon. I just want us to play it smart, that's all. It'll be better to stay in the woods for a while, in case those yokels come back with a search party, or something."

May nodded at the sense of it, saying, "Okay, Dewey."

Dewey slid off of his rock and walked over to Vincent. "Thanks, cher. You stay here. Me and Vince'll go back and see if we're being followed."

He patted the horse's flank. "C'mon, Horse Meat. We're gonna go back up the road and cover our tracks."

Vincent lifted his head, licked the precious water from his lips, and lazily followed Dewey back up the long path, disappearing into the dark of the forest.

* * *

 

The _Hessian_ , with a rented team of horses, flew across the highway that connected the previous town and its train station to the next leg of the journey that still remained unreachable for another mile or two.

Without Deuteronomy to drive the coach, The Hunter was resigned to that task, sitting high in the coach's box seat, enjoying the rare view the day provided. He drove the team hard, while dreams of real wealth and matrimonial contentment drove him equally hard.

At last, the low, brick and wooden stage station came into view, and it would have been hard to tell who was more excited in reaching it, The Hunter, or the hard-ran team.

With a commanding yank on both the reins and the brake lever, The Hunter's team thundered to a gradual halt just outside the station's corral, where fresh horses were waiting to take the haggard team's place on the _Hessian_.

As the station's crew went to work unhitching the team, The Hunter turned around in his seat and worked at tightening up some loosened cord that was threaded through a leather tarp and was concealing and protecting something large and bulky on the coach's roof luggage rack.

When he found the work unsatisfactory, he stood up in the seat with a grunt, and stepped onto the rack, being careful not to walk on the mysterious bulge underneath. Then the coach was rocked violently hard.

Whoever was in the passenger compartment was surprisingly strong in the cramped quarters, and was slamming into the reinforced doors with enough impact to cause the entire coach body to swing high on its leather thoroughbraces.

The Hunter, standing on the roof, felt like he was on the deck of a stricken ship in a storm, as he fought for balance and leaned awkwardly in opposition to the rough motion.

He knew who it had to be, and habit caused him to go to his holster for his heavy gun, but at the last moment he though against it, and brought both hands up again for counterbalance.

He stomped angrily on the roof.

"Hey! You better not be bustin' up my Hessian, don dere!" he yelled, causing the workers to stop in the middle of their duties and watch this scene play out.

With one more violent slam, the door broke outward, swinging open by its two twisted, surviving hinges, and Nate and Curtis, followed by Lois, carrying Huey, stumbled out, still linked together like a chain gang, only by the wrists. The shackles securing their feet to the floor of the compartment were gone.

"C'mon!" Nate yelled, as the rest of the family scrambled to follow him in their attempt to run into the safety of the high grass and dark woods beyond the station.

The family made it as far as the side of the squat bunkhouse next door, before the ground around their feet exploded with lethal thumps.

Distraught and fearfully discouraged from moving any further, they looked around for their attacker, and sadly found him on top of his coach, aiming a mechanized, tubular weapon they had never seen before.

Held up by a swivel-based, telescopically spring-loaded pedestal, The Hunter pointed a customized Puckle Gun up at the general direction of their legs. No sense in damaging the bounty _too_ greatly, after all.

"You owe me a door," he said evenly. "Let me guess. You picked the ankle locks with a hairpin."

"What is it with that _coach_ of yours?" Lois asked him in utter exasperation. Of all the coaches she rode in her life, she never felt as much vexation as she did with this particular one.

"Well, she's my pride and joy, Miss Pewterschmidt," he exclaimed. "She may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts. I made a lot of special modifications to her myself."

"That's why you had that thing shipped down here?" she asked.

"Of course," he beamed. "You're almost home. No sense in you not comin' back in style, Miss Pewterschmidt."

Lois bristled. She caught his refusals to acknowledge her marriage to Nate. "It's Mrs. Griffin to you, _bounty hunter_."

The Hunter smiled with anticipation, saying, as if in a whisper, "For a little while, ma'am. For a little while." He then directed his voice at the rest of the clan.

"Now, we're all gonna turn right around and march back into the coach like good little children. I only shot at ya'll with the _round_ bullets. Don make me _hit_ you with the square ones."

Momentarily defeated and lacking any new plans of escape, the Griffin Family, minus May, walked back to the Hessian and sullenly reentered it, closing the awkward door back on its now-weakened lock.

The Hunter reached down near the base of the Puckle to a valve connected to a small tank and a network of thin pipe leading into the ceiling of the passenger compartment.

He called out to the workers who were finishing the unhitching and said, while turning the valve, "You boys better finish up quick. With that door broke, I don know if it'll hold back the ether, and I don want to turn this place into a Grateful Dead concert, if I can help it."

The Hunter retracted and covered up the gun under its set aside tarp, sat back down in the driver's box, and then took the precaution of tying a bandana around his mouth and nose. The station crew, with pensive understanding, increased their pace.

Soon, with fast, new horses, and an unconscious bounty inside, the Hessian sped away down the lonely Virginian road.

* * *

 

"There, now," Dewey said with some satisfaction, a large, leafy branch in his hand, and smaller leafy branches tied to the bottom of his worn shoes. "I'd say that'd do it. They'll have a hard time trying to track us now."

Standing by the wild shrubs by the side of the road, Vincent scoffed lightly. "Are you certain this trick will fool them?"

"You kiddin'? 'Course it will. Now, let's get back to May."

Vincent led the way through the heavy growth and brambles with Dewey falling behind due to his removal of the branches on his feet.

The horse kept wondering about a passing thought that nagged at him. During the chase, he thought his saw a sign by the side of the road. Was it a border sign? Did they, indeed, enter the state of Virginia?

As he easily handled the slope back towards the trees sheltering the lakeshore, Vincent fretted inwardly at that. From what May had told him about what had happened to her family, and his own experience in watching what people did to horses and whomever else they deemed, so-called "beasts of burden," if they _did_ make it, it would be for her, at best, a bittersweet reunion and a Pyrrhic victory, and at worse, terrible and utter suicide.

When he reached the tree line, he happened to look down and saw one of May's shoes lying by the root of a tree, and stopped.

When he found the other shoe and her headscarf lying on the other side, he stuck his head past the tree and into the daylight of the shore.

May was gone.

"Dewey!" he called out. Panic and worry gripped his massive heart. A moment later, the young man ran to his side.

"What? What's wrong, Vincent?"

"Her clothes are on the ground," the horse said in a tight voice. "I can't find her. I don't see her by the lake. Do you think anyone got here after we left?"

Dewey had to fight to keep his mind from going blank as a defense against the shock of never seeing May again.

Following Vincent's lead, he scanned the surface of the still water, listening for any errant sound of struggle or passage through the nearby woods, and not seeing a single track on the grassy sand, but their own.

He went over everything he did, using all of the knowledge and skills his cursed service to The Hunter had earned him, to protect May, and found nothing lacking. He was just unlucky.

No, he realized. He had _failed_ her. He had lost her.

"May…" his whispered helplessly, the tragedy making his voice crack.

Vincent whinnied sadly, and was about to offer, what he knew to be weak words of comfort, when they both saw someone coming out of the lake.

There, beautifully breaking the water's surface, was May.

A _nude_ May.

Dewey didn't know if he was alive or dead, because at that moment, he could have sworn that he was in Heaven.

"Oh, thank God, she's all right!" sighed a grateful Vincent.

If Vincent was speaking to Dewey, however, there was no way the teenager could have possibly heard him over the sound of Michael Jackson's _Human Nature_ playing softly in his head.

May shook the water from her curly hair, and the droplets sparkled like diamonds in the sunlight.

Her caramel skin glowed softly in the noonday as she swam over to one of the boulders that had a waiting cloth and her spectacles on top.

She took her time drying off on the stone, letting the cooling breezes do most of the work while she simply luxuriated in the restful, open setting of Nature.

From where he hid, Dewey couldn't see too much of May's details, but the sheer, uncovered, unadorned beauty he saw of her, struck him dumb.

"Whoa…" was all he could manage.

"Rather!" a misinterpreting Vincent agreed. "What do you think about that?"

"Whoa…" said Dewey, still gazing at May in the sunlight.

Finally catching on and exasperated, Vincent asked him, "Is that all you're going to say, or are you going to continue with your spot-on impersonation of Keanu Reeves?"

"Whoa…"

Vincent sighed. This Human was clearly hopeless when it came to obvious romantic endeavors.

"Oh, honestly, if you like the girl so much, then why don't you just do the gentlemanly thing? Nuzzle her neck and mount her."

Dewey seemed to snap out of his trance at that, but still focused on May. "First things, first."

"My Stars and Garters!" Vincent quipped. "A cogent sentence!"

Dewey ignored him and absently waved at somewhere in the general direction of the rear of him, saying to the horse in an equally vacant voice, "Uh, why don't you, uh...go and…uh...do, uh...something…"

"Well, _that_ didn't last," said Vincent, as he turned back toward the ridge and left him to his oggling.

Something that, unbeknownst to him, May had noticed for more than a minute now, thanks mostly to the two onlookers' slightly loud conversation.

At first she was petrified by their discovery of her, but when she realized that it was just a boy, a horse, and no one else, coupled with the fact that she and the particular boy faced death together, she didn't let it ruffle her. In fact, she let it inspire her.

She secretly always wanted to be The Bad Girl, to really flirt with the boy she liked, show him the goods, as it were, and see if he liked what he saw.

Travel was said to broaden the mind, but who knew it would make her into such an exhibitionist. Being so far from home and getting spied on while skinny-dipping was just too perfect a scenario not to take lascivious advantage of, even though May could easily hear her mother's nasally voice rise in protest to such unladylike behavior.

' _May Griffin, shame on you!'_ Lois might have said. _'No boy is going to see_ my _upstanding daughter in her all-together.'_

May, feeling wicked, might have said, as a titillated rejoinder, _'Mom, if he's as hot as I think he is, your daughter won't be_ up standing _for long!'_

She was so happy that her folks weren't here to see this.

With a naughty burst of courage, May didn't hide away, yet she fought the urge to turn her head and look at him. She wanted to see how long she could turn him on just by being sexily coy with him.

Although, by now, she was fairly dry, she kept rubbing herself with her cloth in a teasing pantomime of drying, performing a strange variation of a strip-tease, by moving the cloth slowly up and around her breasts, tantalizingly down her belly by inches, softly across her arms, and delicately along her outstretched legs on the warm rock. All the while giving the slightest of glances his way to see his delicious reactions.

She loved it.

Boys were funny that way, she thought with a mischievous smile, but they were also really fun to play with. In very interesting ways.

After a while, she decided to end her little game, so she made a show of getting off her rock as a way of warning him that she was coming over to get dressed.

Watching May approach, Dewey, in a panic, left the tree he had been leaning against, and scampered further up the slope to meet up with Vincent and wait for her to rejoin them.

After some time passed, with Dewey sitting against the base of a tree, he stood and walked quickly to meet her when he heard her ascend to their leveled-off part of the slope.

"We didn't see you when we got back from coverin' our tracks by the road," Dewey lied nonchalantly, doing a good job of not letting on about his earlier fears or his desirous watching of her.

May, being no less an actress for having spent time with one, looked convincingly innocent after letting him peer over just about ever inch of her body, and said, "Sorry about that. I had to take a dip. I've been on the road so long, I smelled like Eragon."

The sound of dead leaves and branches moving furtively on the forest floor were suddenly heard, heralding the presence of a gray squirrel coming up from the slope.

With a rapid-fire series of irate chirps, the rodent picked up a few small rocks and threw them at Dewey, and then left him.

Surprised by the startling behavior of the animal, May asked, "Dewey, why was that squirrel mad at you?"

Dewey shrugged, "Hmm? Oh, I busted a nut."

* * *

 

The sun sat in its position of early afternoon, and the trio had made fair amount of progress through the lower, more level grade of forest beyond the lake, after circumnavigating as much of the lake as there was shoreline to walk upon.

Now, about a mile or two from the lake, they were picking their way through an area of sparcer growth, and the silent, but universal consensus was that they wished that they could travel on the much easier roadways.

"The newest fashions are all influenced by Paris and New York, these days," Vincent said, while navigating through some narrow trees. "Being tan is considered adventurous and the womens' bustles are a full two inches larger now. Can you imagine?"

Dewey, who was leading him by the reins and now helping him get by the trees, didn't seem all that impressed.

"Big whoop," he scoffed. "The only thing I'm interested in is whether we're in Virginia, or not."

Vincent scoffed back. "Philistine."

"Filly," came Dewey's smirking rejoinder.

The horse gave an indignant snort, while May, who was a little further ahead of them, giggled.

Dewey then called out to May, to include her in the conversation.

"I don't get these people at all, boo. They swear up and down that they don't like us because of what we look like, and then they do everything they can to look just like us. I wonder why?"

May welcomed the chance to talk about something, _anything_. It was the tonic that kept them focused and sane during these exhausting hikes. Chatting, singing, even making each other laugh by playing Dozens, all of this good camaraderie made this adventure much more bearable.

With a friendly shrug, she pressed on, saying to them, "I don't know. What's the French word for 'jealousy?' Anyway, I wouldn't worry. We still have our developing new culture here in this country, like our music, and the way we talk and dress. Don't worry guys; they can't take _that_ away from us. We'll be okay."

Behind May, Dewey and Vincent exchanged a pitying look at her expense.

"Think we should tell her?" Dewey asked the horse.

"Nay, nay, I say," said Vincent in an authoritarian manner.

Dewey stopped moving and thought about what he just heard. It didn't sound right to him.

"Wait, when you said 'nay' just now, were you just being a horse and sayin' 'neigh?'"

"Nay," Vincent said simply.

Dewey felt like he hit a logical dead end. Then he had an idea.

"Whinny," he told the horse.

Vincent looked perplexed at Dewey's obvious sentence fragment. "When he what?"

"What d'ya mean, 'whinny what?' You're a horse, aren't ya?"

"You tell me. You're the one who said, 'when he…'"

"Yeah! Whinny!"

"When he _what_?"

Dewey rubbed his eyes in tired frustration. "Look, you're a horse, right?"

"Yes, you silly person."

"Neigh," he told the horse.

"What do you mean, nay? I _am_ a horse."

"Neigh!"

"Stop saying that! I _am_ a horse! I _am_ a horse!"

"Then whinny!"

"WHEN HE _WHAT_?" Vincent screamed.

Then they heard May scream.

Looking ahead, they didn't see her among the thinner trees. Fearing that they really may have lost her, this time, the two slalomed through the rough vegetation and past her last known vicinity.

Calling out for her, they pushed their way through and ended up stumbling into a wide clearing, possibly a meadow. Up ahead was May.

She looked as though she were praying. Slumped on her knees, in the grass, her head was so low from their point of view, it seemed as though it wasn't there.

Dewey ran to her, nervously calling her name more softly, but still getting no response from her.

He knelt beside her, looking over to her, checking for injuries and finding none. At least none that were visible.

May couldn't speak. It was all she could do to breathe inbetween her tortured sobbing, as she slowly, _angrily_ clutched and tore out two fist-sized clumps of sod in her hands.

She shuddered in Dewey's arms as he held her, looking around for the source of her pain, wishing he knew what was wrong and wanting to free her from whatever was emotionally breaking her in two.

In fact, so focused was he on May, that he hadn't noticed, until he was next to her, what she was kneeling before. In his horror, he felt sick to the very core of his being.

Suspended by a weathered, hemp rope tied to a strong branch from a tree ahead of them was the shoeless, beaten corpse of a black woman.

A breeze came and went, causing the body to sway gently.

Whether by the secret protection of her parents, or just simple providence, in all her young years under the shadow of the lash, May had never once seen one of her people suffer the ultimate end to white man's cruelty. Accidentally walking into this site of terror and death killed May's innocence from within, because she could clearly empathize with the victim.

She was a young woman, a little older than May, but still in the prime of her life, and a slave, as Griffin once was. May couldn't help but see herself in the dead woman's place for whatever reason she was up there.

Had her family not escaped Virginia, would this have been her fate someday, as well? A life of possible promise ended because of local retribution for some imagined slight? Or covering their guilty tracks after a random and brutal rape? Or just for no reason at all.

All May knew was that she died by their cowardly hands, regardless of cause. Willingly murdered by psychopaths with societal carte blanche.

Seeing the dead woman hanging before him took the strength out of Dewey. There was the bitter taste of acid in the back of his throat and his stomach ached. He wanted to wail and weep along with May, but instead became the opposite. Not overwhelmed with emotion, but, emotionally hollow. Sentimentally undead.

He could hear the slow plodding of hoof beats as Vincent came up to the grievers, silently giving his support and offering up his sorrowful solidarity with bowed head, but the boy barely noticed him.

Death had long since claimed that poor woman's soul, but all three of them could feel his presence in the field now. They couldn't be sure if was a pervasive fear, or merely sadness at the tragedy of it all.

Then it hit them by degrees, that numbing feeling again. Fear and sorrow. Those two old ghosts that haunted them and every other slave from birth to death. Those inescapable lion's jaws of the oppression they had to live with day after day after ruthless day.

The time-honored evil and psychological erosion that could wear one down to nothing. It was here, it was _always_ here, whether they left it once or not, hidden in the beauty of the land, but eager to devour its toll of the disenfranchised.

Like the poor woman in the tree.

Dewey slowly lifted his head to the dead slave, his eyes haunted and pained, not wanting to look, but forcing himself to, as some weak form of penance.

If this was God truly punishing him for his past, he figured that this was just the beginning.

"I guess we made it," he whispered in desolation.


End file.
